The Betrayal
by JessieBess
Summary: Tom finally has a job in Dublin. They've told her family about their plans. Now they're just waiting until after Matthew and Lavinia's wedding to leave for Dublin. But fate, and someone else, intervenes in those plans.
1. Chapter 1

Although he had drawn the dark green curtains shut to block out the early morning sun, he had left the window open so that the cool night air could drift into the room. Several times during the night he had been awakened by the now unfamiliar sounds of voices and even a passing lorry or two breaking the stillness of the night for in chauffeur's cottage he heard no such passing noises in the night.

That he had been able to sleep at all had been rather surprising to him since the evening had probably been the most eventful evening of his life mixing a variety of emotions including apprehension, hostility, scornfulness, pride but most of all love. Now wide awake and fully dressed, Tom pulled back the curtains to be greeted by a lovely spring morning with billowy white clouds floating aimlessly in the crisp blue sky. The fresh air of the spring morning contained just a hint of lilac from the budding bushes that grew behind the low stone wall that separated the street below his window from the village church yard.

Tom stood at the window of his room in the Grantham Arms, watching people scurry down the street and he briefly wondered where they had to be but mostly it seemed that those that passed by his window were children on their way to the village schoolhouse or women carrying their wicker baskets on their way to the shops occasionally pausing in groups of two or three to chat. Less rare than people were the lorries that would rumble by and the occasional motor car. As he stood there watching village life play out on the street below he thought how strange it seemed to have woken up in this room in the middle of the village rather than his cottage.

The chauffeur's cottage had been his home for the past six years. He recalled how excited he had been at the interview when told the cottage came with the job. For someone who had never had his own bedroom until three years prior when he went to work for the old widow, and not that the tiny room, a former horse stall that had been carved into a bedroom when part of the old stables was converted into a garage, with barely enough room for the single bed and one chest of drawers, was much, if any, of an improvement from the childhood bedroom he had shared with his brothers, the thought of a whole cottage just for himself seemed heavenly. Surely with his own cottage, he'd have a space to sit and read or write.

The cottage had delivered even more than he had expected with a large sitting room, a good-sized bedroom with enough space for a double bed, and most unexpectedly a bathroom with a large tub. For the first time in his life he had been able to take long soaking baths without fear of one of his siblings banging on the bathroom door imploring him to hurry up or moaning about leaving them no hot water. Since electricity had also been installed, another unexpected bonus, he could read far into the night without straining his eyes from candlelight.

Tom had known that the moment he stepped into that drawing room his time at Downton as the chauffeur would be over meaning he would no longer be welcome to stay at the cottage he had called his home for the past six years. He had prepared for that by packing all his belongings in the two battered suitcases he had brought with him from Ireland and bringing them to the Grantham Arms where he had taken this room. Not packed in either of those suitcases were the two sets of the green livery he had worn every day of those past six years. Those he had left, along with his camel colored coveralls, hanging neatly in the lone closet of the cottage's bedroom.

When he had awoken yesterday he had donned one of those uniforms as a matter of habit thinking that his day would be much like the day before and the days before that. It wasn't until breakfast when Carson doled out the morning's post to the servants gathered around the large wooden dining table that Tom's morning, indeed his life, changed.

Carson's eyebrow had given a slight quirk as he had read the return address on the bulky envelope before handing it to Tom. Tom knew that Carson was curious about the rash of mail he had suddenly begun receiving from Ireland for in the time that Tom had been at Downton the bulk of his mail had been monthly letters from his mother and the less frequent ones from his sisters and a couple of cousins. Taking the envelope from Carson, Tom didn't know if Carson realized if those names on the return were Irish newspapers and he never offered that information.

Tom didn't satisfy Carson's curiosity by opening the envelope in the servants hall as his fellow workers readily did. Instead he pocketed it in his vest pocket, to be read later in the solitude of the garage where there would be no one else to see the unbridled happiness of an offer or, more likely, the disappointment of another rejection.

His mind focused on the envelope in his pocket which he now realized was thicker that the usual one page letter, he didn't hear the chatter of his coworkers. Leaving much of his breakfast uneaten, raising the interest of those still seated at the table for Tom was known as a hardy eater, he hurriedly retreated to the garage. Taking the letter out of his pocket, he stood there staring at the unopened envelope he held in his trembling hands. When he had received his first reply he had excitedly torn into the envelope only to read those most unsatisfying words of rejection. Now, after several rejections Tom was almost afraid to open the letter fearing another rejection.

Finally sighing deeply, he slit open the envelope. He quickly glanced through the top letter and he could hardly believe his eyes as he read such words as _offer … opportunity… reporter_ that were interspersed throughout the five paragraph letter. He felt his pulse quicken and his heart racing as he then slowly read through the letter.

That letter had set off a chain reaction that led to Tom now standing here at this window in one of the rooms-for-let at the Grantham Arms no longer the Downton chauffeur but a soon to be Dublin journalist.

Still standing at the window in the Grantham Arms his eyes no longer really seeing the street or the church yard, Tom ran his hand through his hair something he had done since he was a little boy despite the admonishments of his mother.

 _All the time you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping, and seducing my daughter behind my back_

 _I don't bow and scrape and I've not seduced anyone_

 _Folly, ridiculous, juvenile madness_

 _I won't allow my daughter to throw away her life_

The words shouted in the Downton drawing room last evening rattled around in his head. He had thought Sybil was naïve to believe that her family, or at least her mother and sisters, would accept him. While Tom didn't necessarily feel he needed or even wanted the Crawley's approval, he knew their acceptance was important to Sybil and that she'd be much happier if she left with their blessing rather than being cast out.

He was proud of her for how she stood up to her father, never wavering or faltering. It was only later when they had retreated to Jackdaw's Castle, the inappropriately named folly that stood across the wide lawn from the Abbey, that Sybil had shed any tears but those had been borne in anger not sorrow.

 _She walked out of the drawing room defiantly. Calling his name Tom followed her out of the room and out of the house. She kept walking across the broad front lawn until they reached the folly._

 _The moon and stars cast enough light that Tom could see her eyes were blazing._

" _I'm sorry Tom" she finally uttered causing him a moment of panic. "Sorry to subject you to that … to them …"_

 _On the floor of the folly, she paced up and down like a caged animal her voice rising with each sentence. "How dare he think I was seduced. How dare he think I'm so weak I can't make up my own mind. How dare he think I'm throwing away my life."_

 _He reached out and stopped her pacing. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in close so that her head rested on his chest as he caressed her hair._

" _We knew it wouldn't be easy Sybil" he softly replied._

After Sybil had calmed down, they sat on the ledge of the folly and talked not so much of what had happened in that drawing room but of their future. He could have sat there all night, his arm wrapped around her waist. Oh how good it felt to finally be able to hold her, to kiss her, to not worry about being seen.

A knock on the door brought Tom back into this room here at the Grantham Arms. It was one of the serving girls bringing him the breakfast that came with the cost of the room. She set the tray holding a small tea pot, a basket of scones, and a hardboiled egg on the desk.

Sitting at the desk eating his breakfast, Tom thought it seemed a bit strange to have a day that his activities were solely up to him. For six years his days had been determined by the demands of those he worked for. Now his time was free until he and Sybil finally left for Dublin which wouldn't be until after Mr. Matthew's wedding in four days time.

He wasn't sure how he'd pass the time until he met Sybil this afternoon. Carson had been a witness to the happenings last night in the drawing room so Tom thought he didn't have to formally hand in his resignation. But he did need to receive the wages still owed to him so he'd visit the servants area before he met Sybil.

He fleetingly thought they should have waited until after the wedding to announce their plans to her family that way he could have been earning money these days instead of sitting here in the Grantham Arms with nothing to do to pass the time.

It was at Sybil's insistence that they tell her family the day Tom received the job offer. The offer came with the requirement that Tom report in person to the Dublin office in ten days time ready to begin work which Tom agreed to in the telegram he sent accepting the job offer. Sybil wanted her family to have some time to digest her plans rather than seem like she was running away. _It's only for a few more days_ she had said. For his part, Tom thought he had waited for four years for her, he could wait a few more days.

But sometimes life takes unexpected, even unwanted, and sometimes cruel, turns. _If only_ … two words that would come to haunt and torment both Tom and Sybil.


	2. Chapter 2

Just as Tom was staring out the window of his room at the Grantham Arms and contemplating the turn his life had taken so too was Sybil. However, unlike Tom she hadn't woken in a strange room with all her possessions tucked into two battered suitcases. No, Sybil had woken in the familiar surroundings of the room she had called her own since she had left the Downton nursery.

Rising from her bed, she automatically reached for her blue flowered silk robe laying in its customary position across the bottom of the bed. It was still early but faint sun light filtered through the space where the curtains had not been pulled tightly shut so as to admit some of the cool night air. She padded over to the window and pulled back the curtains revealing a sky brightened by the first golden rays of the rising sun. With the curtains fully opened the cool morning air quickly moved through the open window causing Sybil to pull her silk robe closed across her chest.

It had been a long time since Sybil lazily lounged in bed before rising to dress and start her day. Standing in front of her bedroom window, Sybil glanced back at the unmade bed thinking that it was the idleness of those years that led to her discontentment. For a while she had masked that discontentment in an interest in politics and women's rights but it was the war that had changed everything for her culminating in this new path she was embarking on.

She clearly remembered the conversation which seemed like a lifetime ago she had had with cousin Isobel regarding her feelings of helplessness, of wasting her life while the men she knew, men she had grown up with, had danced with her at her coming out ball as well as the balls of her friends, were sacrificing theirs in the war.

" _You've been a tremendous help with the concert."_

" _I don't mean selling programs or finding prizes for the tombola. I want to do a real job, real work."_

At that time she could never have imagined how that conversation would change her life. With her nursing she had found something that finally gave her life a purpose and a sense of being useful. When the war ended Sybil realized she couldn't go back to her previous life. Having become used to the hustle and bustle of those war years, she was now enveloped in a restlessness brought about from the sheer idleness of her days. Walking with Edith through rooms no longer serving convalescing soldiers but put back as they had been before the war with no remaining traces as to their use these past few years, she had told her sister she now knew what it was like to work. _To have a full day. To be tired in a good way. I don't want to start dress fittings or paying calls or standing behind the guns._

Sybil turned her head from the bed to the view out her window and her eyes were immediately drawn across the wide expanse of lawn to the folly reminiscent of an ancient Greek temple. She smiled remembering the comforting warmth of Tom's arms around her.

She was so proud of the way Tom had stood up to her father. Never wavering. Never cowering. While she might have faltered for a moment, especially with Granny in the room, she had taken strength from the way he so strongly voiced _you've asked me to come and I've come._ Together they had faced her family.

She hadn't planned on heading for the folly when she had walked out of the drawing room last night, she only knew that she wanted to get far away from the house. She hadn't uttered a word as she led Tom across the lawn. It was only upon reaching the moonlit folly that she allowed herself to express the anger bubbling inside her.

 _As she paced up and down the floor of the folly, the words of her father stoked her anger. Tom reached out and stopped her pacing. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in close so that her head rested on his chest as he caressed her hair._

" _We knew it wouldn't be easy Sybil" he softly replied._

" _But … but I thought … I…" Sybil mumbled as she tried to gather her thoughts._

" _It was such a surprise for them love" Tom continued. He had thought Sybil was too optimistic in thinking her family, at least her mother and sisters, would readily accept him but he kept those thoughts to himself. "Maybe tomorrow when they've had some time to think about it they won't be so harsh."_

" _At least Mama and Granny were interested in hearing our plans" Sybil countered "although Papa didn't even listen. He … he was…"_

" _Your father is set in his ways. It will take some time for him to see me as something other than a chauffeur or as his servant."_

 _As they continued to talk, she found his Irish lilt comforting and with his hand gently rubbing her back she could feel her anger slowly seeping away._

They had stayed sitting on the floor of the folly, their legs dangling over the edge, his arm around her waist and her head leaning against his chest, for what seemed like hours. Eventually their conversation had gone from what had happened in the drawing room to their plans for the next few days. He had talked about their crossing over to Ireland and even in the moonlight she could tell his eyes were lit with excitement of the thought of returning to his native country. She had asked again about his mother and siblings and his home but he said they'd have plenty of time on the boat to talk about that.

Finally they sat in silence, still holding on to each other, their fingers entwined with each other's and Sybil thought she had never felt more at peace.

Now standing here at her bedroom window, Sybil thought of how long she had denied her feelings for Tom. There had been a time, a long time, when she would have admitted he was her friend, probably the closest friend she had ever had, but that was all. Somehow their conversations on women's rights and politics had evolved into a friendship between two people from diverse worlds.

Although she had some inkling of Tom's feelings for her, she wasn't oblivious to the way Tom's eyes would gaze at her with longing, she was surprised that he had chosen York as the scene to reveal the depth of his feelings for her. By that time she too had some feelings of something beyond pure friendship but wouldn't have described it as anything like love. Not that she really had any idea of what love was for her contact with men had been limited to her one and only season.

But in York when Tom had laid bare his feelings, Sybil couldn't respond in kind. She was already in turmoil over her decision to go to nursing school. She was leaving home for the first time and stepping into a world far removed from her upbringing. Yet she knew that she needed him to be there when she returned, she needed him as a voice of reason and encouragement, she needed him as a friend.

Even when she had finally admitted to herself that she loved him, she didn't run to him immediately and accept his proposal. She had to be sure that she could leave the life in which she had been raised. More importantly she had to be sure she could leave her family if it came to that.

 _You're asking me to give my whole world and everyone in it._

 _And that's too high a price to pay?_

 _It is a high price. I love my parents and my sisters._

After last night, it seemed that now she would be giving up her whole world. Was she really so naïve in thinking that her family would accept her decision to marry Tom?

Sybil's reverie was broken by the sounds of grumbling from her stomach. She chuckled wondering how she could be hungry after so much emotional turmoil but then realized how little she had eaten at dinner in anticipation of Tom's arrival later that evening in the drawing room.

She turned away from the bedroom window and looked around the room that would be hers for only a few more days. Her parents and sisters had always said the room was bright and sunny like her but as she looked about she saw so little that gave any indication of her personality or the person she had become. Other than some framed photographs and a few trinkets like the carved ivory elephant that her father had given her or the porcelain music box shaped like a carousel that was a gift from Grandpapa Levinson, the room was furnished like the rest of Downton with furniture, paintings and ornamental vases that had been in the Crawley family for generations.

How different would be her and Tom's flat she thought. There'll be a wall with bookcases filled with books we've actually read and ... Sybil's stomach grumbled louder causing her to stop her daydreaming and get dressed.

She paused momentarily with her hand on the bedroom doorknob. Taking a deep breath she braced herself to face whatever waited for her in the dining room. She hadn't seen any of her family since she had left the drawing room last night with Tom.

But if Sybil could have seen into the future she would have seen that it wasn't what awaited her downstairs at breakfast she need fear but rather that sometimes life takes unexpected, even unwanted, and sometimes cruel, turns.

 **A/N: As always thanks for the reviews - they keep me writing.**


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: As always thank you for the reviews. As one guest commented this story will be a roller coaster with some very steep drops but I hope you'll stay till the end of the ride. I've been stuck on this chapter for ages and finally decided to just go with it but I hope you'll think it came out okay in the end._

The unexpected activity in the grand hall caused Sybil to pause on the first landing of the staircase and take in the hustle and bustle below her as servants prepared for Matthew and Lavinia's wedding. Chaos seemed to reign as footmen moved furniture about to make room for the expected guests while housemaids hurried to and fro their arms laden with vases or bundles of flowers. Baskets of flowers and greenery waiting to be put in flower arrangements or draped in garlands on the staircase bannisters were haphazardly strewn about the floor. One of the large foyer tables had been moved against a wall and a large Oriental vase with an array of colorful flowers covered most of the surface of the table.

Seeing the preparations to celebrate the forthcoming wedding of the heir of Downton momentarily filled Sybil with a twinge of resentment. Unlike her own upcoming wedding, her family was happy with this wedding as evidenced by all the activity and expenses being played out in the grand hall. Her family couldn't see past Tom as a chauffeur yet Matthew who had been a middle class solicitor was perfectly acceptable now that he was the Crawley heir.

Sybil shook her head to wipe out such jealous thoughts. Why shouldn't Matthew have a joyous wedding? Shouldn't all weddings be a joyous occasion to be celebrated by those that loved the bride and groom? Even when that wedding was between someone like herself and Tom? Why couldn't her family see that she and Tom were so evenly matched in the ways that counted … their views on politics and life … their hopes and dreams for the future?

Only Edith was present when Sybil entered the dining room and it was evident by her wide eye stare and mouth falling open in a perfect O that Edith was surprised by Sybil's appearance at breakfast.

Sybil uttered a quick "good morning" before busying herself at the sideboard and filling her plate. Looking at the array of food setting in their silver warming dishes Sybil realized she was hungry for she had eaten very little at dinner the night before. Carson, standing off to the side as if guarding the sideboard, seemed to be flustered by her arrival and after giving her a curt nod of his head instead of the more usual "good morning" made a hasty retreat from the room.

"You timed that perfectly" Edith began "Papa just left."

"I wasn't waiting for that" Sybil defiantly responded.

Placing her plate on the table, Sybil took her usual seat. "Besides, why shouldn't I have breakfast here?"

Feeling chastised, Edith lowered her head as if suddenly finding the food on her plate so interesting. "I only thought that …" Edith quietly murmured "well I thought … well after last night that you wouldn't be too anxious to see Papa."

"I'm not ashamed Edith. I love Tom and I'm going to marry him."

The strong and clear tone of Sybil's voice caused Edith to raise her head and look directly across the table at Sybil who was staring back at her with her face set in that willful determined look that Edith had seen so many times. In so many ways Edith envied her younger sister for Sybil had always been strong and independent, adventuress and fearless, characteristics that Edith didn't possess but which she wished she did. Although she was the older sister as children she found herself usually following Sybil's lead in playing.

Softening her voice, Sybil asked "Can't you just be happy for me?"

To Edith, not only Sybil's voice but the look in her eyes conveyed a plea if not for understanding then at least acceptance but she didn't understand it, not at all.

Edith took in the sight of her younger sister calmly sitting at the table as if this morning was no different from the hundreds of other mornings they had breakfasted in this very room, a room which by its size and furnishings from the magnificent oil paintings that adorned the walls to the large intricately carved sideboard to the pale yellow silk wallpaper to the high ceiling that dwarfed those sitting at the fine mahogany table that could seat twenty spoke to the wealth and importance of the family that lived here. And now her sister was willing to give all this up, everything she had known, for … for a life in Ireland with the chauffeur? And what of the family thought Edith. Sybil was tearing the family apart. Didn't she care about that?

"I'm surprised no heads have rolled" Mary swept into the room. "But then again I don't see Papa."

"Papa finished breakfast before Sybil came down" Edith offered.

"Ah" Mary smirked as she nodded her head and raised her eyebrow before turning to the sideboard.

Any further conversation among the sisters was halted as Carson returned to the room through the butler's pantry.

"Is there anything you need milady?" he asked as he busied himself lifting the lids and checking the contents of several of the warming dishes sitting on the sideboard.

"Maybe some fresh coffee Carson" Mary answered.

"Of course my lady" Carson picked up the silver coffee server and left the room leaving just the three sisters.

"So Edith how did Papa seem this morning? A bit calmer I hope?" Mary took her usual position at the breakfast table sitting beside Edith.

Edith shook her head. "He didn't really say much although" she turned towards Sybil "he did ask me if I had seen you last night after you left the drawing room."

"Did he carry on after Tom and I left?"

Edith looked as if she was going to say something but Mary spoke up first. "Really Sybil what did you expect would happen last night? Did you really think Papa would open his arms and say wonderful news you and the chauffeur?"

The anger that Sybil had felt last night in the drawing room started bubbling up again. "Tom's a journalist now not a chauffeur."

Mary sighed and rolled her eyes in that dismissive way of hers. "You're being naïve Sybil if you think that being a journalist makes him more presentable."

"Isn't Richard Carlisle a journalist?" Edith couldn't resist a dig at Mary.

"No Edith … Richard owns newspapers … there's a very big difference" Mary retorted.

"Please" Sybil pleaded with her sisters hoping to head off another fight between the two of them "there's nothing wrong with being a journalist. In fact we need journalists to let us know what is actually happening in the world. Without them we wouldn't"

"Back to politics I see" Mary interrupted but at least her tone was more agreeable than her response to Edith had been.

She busied herself buttering her toast but instead of taking a bite she set it back on her plate. "Sybil you know I want the best for you. With the war coming so soon after your season there really hasn't been much opportunity for you. I know you've found an ally in Branson with your politics and he was someone to turn to with the rest of us so busy but now with the war over I just don't want to think that you've limited yourself … that you haven't given yourself a chance."

Even though Mary's tone was conciliatory Sybil was in no mood to be appeased. "How many times must I say it Mary this isn't something I've rushed in to. I'm not sure when my friendship turned to love but I kept him waiting two years before I"

"Two years!" Mary and Edith blurted out in unison interrupting Sybil.

Sybil looked at the shocked faces of her sisters and smiled.

* * *

Returning to her room after breakfast Sybil saw Anna in the corridor.

"Anna could you tell Mrs. Patmore that for lunch today I thought I'd have a picnic and if she'd prepare a basket. It doesn't have to be anything fancy or special whatever she has on hand would be fine."

"Of course my lady" Anna responded. She was curious as to what had happened last night but neither Lady Mary nor Lady Edith had brought up the subject when she had attended them earlier this morning. Lady Sybil as she had done since the war hadn't needed Anna's services this morning.

"Has Tom … I mean Branson been in this morning?"

"Not that I know."

Sybil nodded and began walking away but she had only taken two or three steps when she stopped and turned back towards Anna. "You know about last night … at least that Tom and I told them."

Anna nodded, her face blank giving no indication of her actual thoughts on the subject. She had been in Lady Mary's room when Lady Sybil had told her sisters that Branson was coming that night after dinner and they were going to tell her parents their plans.

Sybil started to say something but inhaled deeply instead before turning once more towards her bedroom.

"My lady" Anna called softly causing Sybil to turn around. "For what it's worth I do think Mr. Branson is a good man."

* * *

Tom came out of the kitchens closely followed by Mrs. Patmore. He passed Mrs. Hughes' office just as she was coming out the doorway. He had stopped to talk to her before making his way into Mrs. Patmore's domain. Nodding to her, he continued down the hall. She stood there in her doorway watching him until he disappeared after turning a corner.

"Well I never guessed that" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed as she now stood next to Mrs. Hughes. "I couldn't believe when Daisy told me what happened in the servants hall. Thought she had to be mistaken."

"So he told you himself did he?"

"Aye. He came to thank me." Mrs. Patmore seemed genuinely touched by Tom's kind gesture as she wiped the corner of her eye with a small green towel. "Said my cooking made him a bit less homesick."

"Now I know why Lady Sybil sent down word that she needed a picnic lunch today. "Daisy calls it romantic" she continued "I just hope the two of them know what they're doing."

"Oh I think they've had long enough to think about that" Mrs. Hughes casually commented.

At her unexpected comment Mrs. Patmore furrowed her forehead and turned to look directly at her friend. "Have you known about this?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head no. "I've had some suspicions. But nothing directly … no."

"Well he's always been a pleasant lad if a bit cheeky. And Lady Sybil she's always been …" Mrs. Patmore groped for the right word "well a bit … different from the rest of that lot."

* * *

As Sybil, with a blanket draped over her arm and carrying a wicker picnic basket in her hand, made her way down the gravel path towards the entrance gate, she was struck with the thought that even two days ago she would never have openly met with Tom in the middle of the afternoon somewhere that was in plain sight of the house. After so many years of hiding her friendship with Tom, even those years when it was truly just a friendship, she felt relieved that it was no longer a secret.

Not that that meant she could now invite him in for dinner or even tea or that the two of them could sit in the library chatting. No Papa and Granny had certainly made their displeasure quite well known to her. Even now as she walked down the path she instinctively turned her head to look back at the house fearing her father would send someone to fetch her back.

Waiting for Sybil, Tom paced back and forth just inside the formidable entrance gate to Downton. Hidden from sight of the house by the overgrown bushes that grew to the left of the gate as if trying to shield the house from view of those walking by, he paced back and forth not because he was nervous of Lord Grantham finding him here on the grounds of Downton but rather to dispel Carson's words from his mind. _Have you no shame_?

Hearing footsteps on the path, Tom stopped his pacing and stood quietly just out of sight of whomever was walking towards him. But as the footsteps drew nearer, Tom smiled for he knew the familiar sound of those footsteps.

Stepping out from the shadow of the bushes to stand beside the path, Tom took in the sight of Sybil coming towards him, her face lighting up with a smile as she saw him. _Have you no shame?_ No he had no shame in loving this wonderful woman.

They sat side by side on the blanket her head nestled against his shoulder his arm wrapped around hers and their fingers entwined and resting on his knee. Their backs were up against the outer wall of the folly which had become a favorite place for them to escape the prying eyes of those around them.

 _Carrying his lunch in a folded cloth bag and a book to read, Tom was doing what he often did on his half days off exploring the grounds of Downton with the goal of finding a nice spot to leisurely each his lunch and read a book. He was amazed at the vastness of the estate and its varied terrain from deep woods opening onto meadows adorned with wild flowers to gently rolling hills where sheep grazed. Born and bred in a city he wasn't use to having so much open land around him but he had come to appreciate the beauty of it, the serenity of finding a quiet place with only birds and the occasional rabbit or deer for company._

 _Walking through the woods, his path suddenly opened onto a field and there sat this curious looking building too small to have been an actual Roman temple and in too good of condition to be an ancient structure. As he stood there wondering why such a building was here and what its purpose was, he noticed there was a bench that ran across the back wall as well as the two side walls making it a good place to sit and eat his lunch and read._

 _Sitting with his back against one side wall and his legs stretched out in front of him on the bench he was engrossed in his book when suddenly there was a clamor as someone nosily entered stomping their feet. He was astonished to sit up and see Lady Sybil stomping her feet and brushing off her shoulders while muttering incoherently._

 _She obviously hadn't noticed him when she clamored inside for when she finally looked up and saw him she gasped and took a step back causing Tom to jump up._

" _I didn't mean to startle you my lady"_

 _She froze at the sight of him standing there in the unfamiliar sight of an ordinary suit rather than his dark green livery and stared as if she had never seen him before. Indeed it must have taken a minute for her to realize it was him for it was only then that her face relaxed._

" _I'm sorry Branson I just didn't realize anyone was in here."_

 _She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him "In fact I've never seen anyone here before."_

 _His head tilted at the cloth bag lying on the floor. "On my half days I like to walk a bit and then find some place to sit and eat my lunch and read."_

" _So I've interrupted you but" she turned and looked out the front of the faux Roman temple "I had to escape from the rain."_

 _Now it was his turn to look puzzled for he had been so immersed in his book that he hadn't noticed it had begun raining. "I hadn't even noticed it was raining."_

 _Looking down at the book he still held in his hands she smiled. "Well it only just started but that book must be most interesting" she teased._

 _She was now standing so close to him he could smell her lavender scent. Since he had given her those pamphlets they often conversed in the motor car but never in a situation like this. He knew he should do the proper thing and take his leave but he didn't want to walk away from her._

" _I guess we're both stuck here for a bit" she said as she sat down on the bench._

 _Embolden by her relaxed manner he picked up the cloth bag. "I haven't eaten yet but I have plenty to share."_

 _He didn't wait for her response. He unfolded the cloth and laid it on the bench then starting setting the food on top of the cloth. He couldn't believe how forward he was but then again if he didn't try …_

 _Without asking her he took out the small pocket knife he always carried and cut the large ham sandwich in half and held out one half to her. She smiled at him as she accepted the sandwich_

 _It was without a doubt one of the best lunches he had ever had._

Today they had taken advantage of the warm sunshine and had spread the blanket outside the folly. While they had eaten neither had broached any serious subject but rather spent the time in the gentle banter of two people in love. But now as she playfully ran her fingers across Tom's hand, Sybil realized how tense his hand had been when he had greeted her at the entrance gate.

"How did it go with Carson and the rest of them this morning?"

Tom took a deep breath. "He wouldn't let me talk to them. He … he … said I should be ashamed of myself."

Sybil sharply stiffened her back as she turned her head to face Tom. "Ashamed?"

Tom softly nodded his head. "Ashamed for loving you."

Sybil jumped up so fast she took Tom by surprise. "How dare he say that!"

She started to pace back and forth. "Even Papa didn't say such a thing."

"What did he say?"

She stopped her pacing and stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. "I won't be received in London" she said mockingly. "I won't be welcome at court."

She stomped her foot and took a couple of deep breaths.

"He can't see I'm not interested in those things" she continued. "He can't see that I want a different life. I want to work. I want to be useful. I want to do something with my life."

Later, after they had exhausted talking about the reactions they had received, as they sat there packing up the remains of their picnic Tom noted how much food they had left. "Did Mrs. Patmore think you were feeding an army?"

Sybil laughed. "It was rather strange really. When I went downstairs to get the basket, Daisy said something about how romantic it was."

Still smiling she continued "before I could ask her what she was talking about Mrs. Patmore shooed her away.

She looked at the two small onion and cheese tarts and the slab of ham they hadn't touched. There were also two large chunks of cheese, a small loaf of freshly baked bread, an unopened small jar of homemade peach preserves, several thick slices of an applesauce raisin cake and several pieces of fruit. "I think they packed enough for you to have dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow."

"Maybe they just want to remind me of all the delicious cooking I'll be missing out on."

Sybil gently poked him in the ribs. "Are you saying you don't think I'll be able to cook like this?"

Tom looked at her with that cheeky grin she found so appealing. "Well …"

She leaned over and poked him a bit harder causing him to fall on his side. Laughing, he instinctively grabbed her arm and pulled causing her to fall on top of him. With their faces only an inch or so apart they stared into each other's eyes for a moment or two before Tom reached up and kissed her.

* * *

Sitting at the dining table barely touched the food on her plate for her mind was on her afternoon with Tom. She could still taste his lips and the electric feel that had engulfed her as his lips caressed her shoulders and chest while his hands gently rubbed her back.

"Sybil!"

The sound of Mary's voice broke through her reverie. Sybil looked across the table to her sister but it was Granny who spoke up.

"I'm glad you're here Sybil, dear. I was afraid you'd have a tray in your room."

Glaring at her, her father stated "Maybe you should have done."

Sybil stared back at her father just as intently. "I don't know why."

Before he could respond, Cora stood up. Looking quite pale and holding onto the back of her chair she spoke "I'm not feeling quite right. I think I'll go upstairs."

The Spanish Flu had come to Downton and in its wake it would leave a trail of devastation.


	4. Chapter 4

_As always thanks for the reviews._

The next two days passed in a blur for Sybil who once again donned her gray nursing uniform, taking it out of the trunk she had begun packing for her new life in Ireland, and attended to the sick at Downton. The Spanish Flu seemed to indiscriminately strike the house afflicting without regard to age or position for the victims included Cora and Lavinia, Carson and the youngest houseboy. Of course with a far greater number of servants than family members, most of the victims were from downstairs.

While Sybil administered to the sick, Tom spent most of those days in unaccustomed idleness and once again he wished that he had stayed working as the chauffeur until he and Sybil actually departed for Ireland. He tried writing some articles on topics he thought might be of interest to his new employer although the editor that hired him had never mentioned what type of writing would be expected of Tom. He took long walks around the estate and, as he had done on his half days off, found a good place to read one of the books Sybil had brought to him from the Downton library.

To no one's surprise, Sybil took her nursing duties seriously which hampered the amount of time she and Tom found to be together. She did manage to escape the house for an hour or so each afternoon and the two of them would spend the time talking and eating the food from a basket that Mrs. Patmore or Daisy would prepare. Tom was grateful that the baskets always had enough food so that he didn't need to spend money or buy his dinner or lunch at the Grantham Arms. He had managed to save quite a bit of money and he wanted to spend as little as possible before arriving in Ireland.

With the Spanish flu gripping the house including the bride-to-be who was currently lodged in one of the upstairs bedroom, after much deliberation the wedding of Matthew and Lavinia was postponed bringing to a halt the preparations that had occupied so much of the downstairs staff. Now with a number of staff ill the wedding decorations still adorned the Great Hall which only two days ago due to the hustle and bustle that had made the place seem like a busy railway station was now eerily quiet.

Robert had tried to spend some time at Cora's bedside but she was mostly sleeping. In the few minutes she was awake she appeared restless and incoherent and most disturbing to him not even aware of his presence. He found O'brien's constant hovering around Cora's bedside annoying for he had never liked the woman and felt uncomfortable whenever she was around. However, he was thankful for her devotion to nursing Cora through this illness although he had to admit he was surprised by this unexpected kindness and unselfishness from a woman he considered loathsome.

Realizing he was not needed, Robert took refuge in the library. Sitting at his desk, he tried working on estate matters or attending to his correspondence but his mind kept drifting to the events which seemed to be overtaking his life. Despite Cora's admonishments, he had looked forward to Matthew's wedding and playing host for such a gala event. Mary, he reminded a skeptical Cora, had certainly had her chance with Matthew and, in his mind, had childishly thrown it away. Not that he was happy with her choice of Carlisle who he considered to be … well best not think about that right now especially when there were so many other things demanding his attention.

More demanding of course was Cora's health. He knew how awful this wretched Spanish flu was but he just had to believe that Cora would pull through. She had to … for he just couldn't imagine a life without her especially now with this unwelcomed situation with Sybil. He felt he was trapped in a nightmare from which he couldn't wake up.

Robert heard the library door opening causing him to lean back in his chair briefly wondering who would be invading his territory. As a sign of how much turmoil the house was in, it was Thomas and not Carson who ushered the Dowager Countess into the library.

"The Dowager Countess" Thomas smartly announced.

At the sight of his mother, Robert stood although he remained standing by his desk. "Mama" Robert smiled "With all the illness around I didn't expect to see you here."

In response Violet sighed as she tilted her head and rolled her eyes in that tsk tsk way she had as she strode purposefully towards Robert.

"Shall I bring tea?" Thomas asked hoping to sound and act like the indispensable butler he someday wished to be.

It was Violet rather than Robert who quickly answered. Without bothering to turn around she firmly stated "Not now Thomas. We'll ring later if we decide differently."

Knowing from the tone of her voice he was dismissed, the wily footman bowed his head while uttering "Of course my lady." He slowly walked out of the library hoping to catch some utterance of what was so important that the old lady would risk illness in coming to the house but both Robert and Violet remained silent until Thomas had firmly closed the door behind him.

"So mama" Robert began "what unexpectedly brings you here?"

"Isn't there quite a lot going on" she replied as she took a seat in the floral print chair nearest Robert's desk. By the way she sat ramrod straight on the edge of the chair, her hands resting atop her cane, Robert knew his mother hadn't come for a friendly chat. "I hear the decision was finally made to cancel the wedding."

"Postponed mama" Robert interjected. With his mother now seated he too sat down in his desk chair.

Violet arched her brows. "Whatever … at least it gives Matthew and Mary more time to come to their senses."

Robert shook his head. "Mama you can't still be thinking there's a chance for that. You're just like Cora."

"So Cora and I do agree on something."

"Well I think you're both dreaming about something that -"

Violet raised her hand in that way she had to stop someone from talking. "Speaking of Cora how is she?"

There was no mistaking the strained look that came over Robert's face. "She seems a bit better today but …" he looked towards the window. "There's just no way of knowing for sure yet."

"O'brien doesn't leave her bedside and Sybil is ensuring Dr. Clarkson's orders are carried out and doing whatever she can" he continued.

"Sybil" The accusatory tone of Violet's voice made Robert realize that Sybil was the real reason for his mother's unexpected visit. He immediately closed his eyes waiting for her recriminations.

"I see there's been no change on that front" Violet stated. When Robert made no reply she continued. "Sybil was just walking out the door when I arrived. He was waiting for her over at the folly."

At his mother's remarks, Robert rose from his seat to take a closer look out the window. He could just make out two figures sitting on the steps of the folly but he wasn't sure he would have known it was Sybil and Branson if his mother hadn't said so.

"I guess she feels now there is no reason to hide their relationship" Violet stated as she too turned her head towards the window.

Robert continued staring out the window. How could she make such a public spectacle of herself he wondered. It was bad enough that the servants knew but soon the whole village would know that his daughter was running away with the chauffeur.

"So what are you going to do about it now?" Violet asked.

"Do about it?" Robert robotically repeated.

Violet sighed as she tapped her cane against the plush carpet. "You've given up then? You're willing to let her go?"

Robert turned to face his mother. "I don't see what I can do. You were with me. You heard her."

But Violet didn't seem convinced. "This is what comes from spoiling her. You were always far too lenient with her."

"Me?" an incredulous Robert replied. "As I recall you encouraged her becoming a nurse. Now look where that has led." He turned again towards the window wanting to escape the glare of his mother's disapproving eyes.

But Violet wasn't ready, or willing, to give up. "Maybe **he** can be convinced."

* * *

Robert sat at his desk thinking about what his mother had said. Maybe because she was the youngest he had been more lenient with Sybil than her sisters. No it wasn't just because she was the youngest he had to admit although that played a large role, it was also Sybil herself. After dealing with Mary and Edith's almost constant tantrums, the toddler Sybil had seemed like a breath of fresh air with a ready smile and an even hardier laugh.

Yet even then she had displayed an independent streak which he had found refreshing. She was curious about the world around her and he was only too happy to oblige her. Had he become too indulgent until it was too late to harness that independence?

"Papa?" the husky voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see her standing there. Of course she was dressed in that gray dress with her white apron and flowing head scarf. He had been surprised when at the first sign of the Spanish Flu she had donned her uniform and once again began nursing the sick.

She was looking at him with those beautiful blue eyes that so reminded him of Cora's. Was that why she had become his favorite daughter because she was the one that resembled her mother?

"Mama seems a bit better. She's peacefully sleeping now not that tossing and turning like before." She smiled as if to reassure him. "I just thought you'd like to know."

He nodded. "Of course. Thank you." It flashed in his mind that it wasn't just in looks she resembled Cora, she also had her mother's innate kindness.

"I'm going to check on Carson and the others. O'brien's staying with mama." Sybil slightly shook her head. "Her devotion has been rather surprising."

Father and daughter stared at each other, their silence filling the room, before Sybil finally nodded then turned and walked out of the library.

Robert stood there watching her go and he knew then what he had to do.

* * *

He stormed out of the Grantham Arms. His anger only grew as he walked back to the house, his steps forceful and deliberate. What had ever possessed him to hire the young Irish man?

 _You've got a wonderful library._

 _Are you interested in books?_

 _Not in books, as such, so much as what's in them._

 _And what are your interests?_

 _History and politics mainly._

Especially hiring one so interested in politics. He should have seen how that man preyed on his kind and malleable young daughter. He should have fired him long ago like that night he had taken Sybil to the count. He was paying the price now for his stupidity.

His steps pounded the gravel path as if with each step he could stomp out the chauffeur's insolence.

 _You're like all of your kind. You think you have the monopoly of honor._

How dare that man talk to him like that.

 _If you're not prepared to listen to reason._

 _I'm not prepared to listen to insults._

He stopped as the house loomed up ahead taking in the sight of it in all its glory. His knees buckled as he thought that his world was spinning out of his control. He was the Earl of Grantham by God and it wasn't supposed to be this way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews.**

Spring is a time of hope and new beginnings. The cold and dark of winter is thrown off by a sun that looms in the sky a bit longer, a bit brighter, and a bit warmer each day. The browns and grays of winter trees and bushes gradually disappear as they begin sprouting green sprigs until it seems that one day they are fully green again or bursting with colorful flowers. Farmers begin planting their fields and cows and sheep graze in now green pastures. It seems that in spring the world comes alive again.

The spring of 1919 was especially a time of hope for the Great War was finally over. It was also a time when many people hoped to resume the lives they had had before the war and probably no one wanted this more than the Earl of Grantham. He had thought with the war over they would once again host the grand dinner parties of the past. There would be hunts and ball and _the season._ His daughters would at last find suitable husbands and soon there would be grandchildren to carry on his legacy. Yet now, as he stood staring at the palatial building he had called home all his life, he felt as if his world was crumbling.

He spent an hour walking the grounds thinking it would lessen his anger but it didn't have the calming effect he had hoped. Instead as he walked through the Monk's Garden which was just now coming alive with an array of pink and purple lilacs and the air was scented by their blooms, he thought of how he had spent so much time here with a young Sybil watching her romp with his golden lab Hera or gleefully playing hide and seek in one of the garden's yew arches. In his mind he saw the toddler Sybil tottering on the garden's pathway and then an older Sybil running to him holding out the flowers she had picked.

How Sybil could give this up for some hovel in Dublin?.

How could that man think he was the best guarantee of Sybil's happiness?

How could his daughter think she was in love with that arrogant man?

Dinner that evening did nothing to enhance his mood. With Carson and another footman ill, it was now the third night of serving themselves from an array of warming trays laid out on the sideboard as if this was the dining room of some third rate hotel. He thought his mother was staying away from the house so as not to risk catching the dreaded disease but here she was once again at the table. She was another thorn in his side as he knew she was just there so she wouldn't miss anything as if she expected drama at the dinner table.

His mood was already bad enough but when he entered the room and saw that Carlisle chap his mood sunk even lower. Why had he taken upon himself to appear in their midst? As he sat at the table he watched Mary and wondered again why she had spurned Matthew and instead agreed to marry this man. Sure, unlike Sybil's choice, the man had money and plenty of it too but money was no substitute for class even if it did buy the man a title of Sir. He took some comfort in the fact that the former chauffeur would be out of sight in Ireland but this man … how many times would he have to feign delight at having this man at his table?

* * *

Tom couldn't think of a time when he had been angrier. He had held himself together while _his lordship_ (oh how he distained those words) had been in his room at the Grantham Arms but once he left and Tom had a chance to think about what had happened he grew angry. He had thought the worst had been said that night in the drawing room but this … this somehow seemed even worse. How could this man think he could be bought off … that money would mean more to him than Sybil?

Thinking a walk around the village in the sunshine would calm him down, he left his room. If he had been more aware of his surroundings rather than replaying the conversation in his head he would have noticed how the innkeeper and bar maid looked at him as he made his way to the front door of the Grantham Arms. They had wondered why the Downton chauffeur was staying in one of the upstairs rooms and their curiosity only heightened when Lord Grantham himself had appeared inquiring as to his room number. Now with Lord Grantham storming out quickly followed by the chauffeur, their tongues wagged as to what could possibly be going on.

* * *

Sybil trudged back to her bedroom feeling as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. The tragic event earlier that evening had come like a fist to the gut since it was so unexpected. Maybe a day or two ago it wouldn't have seemed so startling although it would have been just as heartbreaking.

She sat down on the stool in front of the vanity table. Unpinning her snowy white head scarf, she let her hair fall freely down her back. Looking into the mirror she gasped at how drawn and weary her face looked. There was no denying she was tired for the past few days had been both physically and mentally draining and there had been no respite except for those too short moments spent with Tom.

Tom. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of him. It should have been the happiest of times for her but instead … she knew what she had to do but she couldn't drag herself away. Instead she sat there reliving in her mind the past few days when she had taken some time away from her nursing duties and met with Tom.

It had been so wonderful to not have to hide from her family, to not care if they were seen, and most of all to not have to hide her true feelings. It had been so wonderful to sit next to him with his arm wrapped around her shoulder or waist or even better when she sat with her head resting on his chest as his fingers aimlessly played with her hair. She remembered the smell of him as he held her tight and the taste of him as he kissed her.

Suddenly her thoughts were clouded by how he seemed a bit different this afternoon as if there was something troubling him that he wouldn't or couldn't talk about. After always accusing her of hiding her emotions or keeping things bottled inside, it was strange that he had become the one masking his thoughts.

 _He was pacing up and down in front of the Downton gates, his steps hard and deliberate, stopping only now and then to pull out his pocket watch and finding the time only a minute or two more than when he had last looked. Noticing his actions as she approached the end of the walkway, Sybil paused to observe him wondering what had him so agitated. When he finally looked up and saw her, a visible wave of relief flooded over his face and body, and he rushed to her gathering her up in his arms._

 _His obvious display of affection there in front of the Downton gates caught her by surprise as they usually waited until they were hidden by the bushes which flanked the side of the walkway before falling into each other's arms._

 _Although he had tried to hide it, making small talk while they ate the lunch that Sybil had brought, she could tell something was bothering him._

" _What's the matter Tom?" she finally asked unable to contain her curiosity._

 _At her words, he pulled himself up from the half prone half sitting position he had been in. "Why would you ask that?_

" _It's just that you seem … a bit … distracted or worried or …" she shrugged her shoulders as if to emphasize her concerns._

 _He reached out and took hold of her hand, his eyes searching her face. With his other hand he gently stroked her cheek and then the side of her face but no words came out of his mouth._

" _Are you afraid your family won't accept me?" she asked thinking the realization that they would be in Dublin in a day or two was finally sinking into him._

" _They'll love you" he quickly replied, a bit too fast for Sybil._

 _She pulled her hand back from his. "I'm serious Tom. Is that what's bothering you? What if they don't like me?_

 _He shook his head. "I can't promise it won't be a bit awkward at first but once they know you they'll accept you. I have no doubt of that." He had spoken firmly but she wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself._

" _Come here" he said as he pulled her over closer to him. He kissed her forehead and then the top of her head as she nestled into his chest. She playfully ran her hand up and down his arm._

" _So tell me more about your family."_

 _He chuckled. "We'll have plenty of time tomorrow on the train to talk about my family._

Looking once again at her face in the vanity mirror, Sybil sighed. She finally stood and walked over to her desk. Retrieving pen and paper from the top drawer, she sat down to write. _My Dearest Tom_

* * *

Like many spring nights, the air had quickly cooled once the sun set. Tom had opened one of the windows in his small room at the Grantham Arms a couple of inches to not only combat the stuffiness of the room but also in the hopes that the sound of the gently falling rain would lull him to sleep. It was a sound that he usually found soothing and comforting which in his present state of mind he needed.

After seven years living and working in England tonight would be his last night here. That he was returning home to his family and to Ireland and that he was returning with Sybil should have made him a very happy man but there had been an uneasiness about the day that now clouded his mind.

 _Tom stopped his pacing in front of the forbidding front gates of Downton to look once again at his pocket watch. She was fifteen minutes late and he had begun to panic thinking that her father, after leaving the Grantham Arms, had somehow been able to convince her of her "foolishness" as his lordship had characterized their decision to marry. It was only when he finally saw her standing there smiling at him that he felt relief and he was so overcome with joy that he swept her into his arms not caring if anyone saw them._

 _Later as they sat on the blanket, the remains of their lunch scattered around them, she asked him "What's the matter Tom?"_

 _He knew she was perceptive and he, unlike her, wasn't good at hiding his feelings so he shouldn't have been surprised that she sensed the tension that lay just beneath the surface of his chatter. Yet as she looked intensely at him, he saw her beautiful eyes full of love and innocence and he knew then he could not shatter her by telling her of her father's offer of money._

 _She still had the belief that her family would come around if for no other reason than their love for her. "If only Mama hadn't become sick I could have spent this time talking to her about you … about us."_

 _She smiled that warm smile of hers. "I'm sure Mama will come to accept us and she'll convince Papa."_

 _Tom smiled weakly as he was still so amazed at her faith in her family. But then of course she doesn't know about her father and his visit he reminded himself. If I tell her … he stared at her face so full of hope. In that moment he realized he couldn't bring himself to tell her. He couldn't cause her more pain._

 _He was surprised when she had suddenly turned the conversation to his mother and his family. "Are you afraid your family won't accept me?" she asked as if maybe that was what was bothering him._

 _Although his mother had agreed to let Sybil stay in her home until the wedding she wasn't thrilled about the situation. She had made her concerns clear in a letter that he hadn't shown Sybil._

" _They'll love you" he replied. He too had faith in his family but like Sybil was it blind faith?_

Tom laid on his bed tossing and turning despite the soothing sounds of the gentle rain. It was only when he woke up that he realized he had fallen asleep. The room was dimly bathed in shadows with just a hint of sunlight peeking through the thin curtains yet something had caused him to suddenly wake. He turned to look at the clock on the bedside table but he had to pick it up and bring it close to his face to see the time. It wasn't quite six and as he set the clock back down on the nightstand he frowned wondering what had awaken him.

Then he heard it … a faint rapping sound. His first thought was that it was branches from the tree outside the window brushing up against the wall. It took him another moment or two to realize the rapping sound came from the other side of his bedroom door. Sitting upright, his face a study in bewilderment, he wondered who could possibly want to see him at this time of the morning?


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: As always thanks for the reviews. This chapter was getting way too long so I've broken it into two.

Although the room was dimly bathed in shadows with just a hint of sunlight peeking through the thin curtains Tom didn't bother to light the lamp on the nightstand. He did grab his well-worn night robe that he had flung over the room's lone chair after returning from his bath and donning the robe and fastening its belt around his waist he made his way to the door. With his hand on the door knob he hesitated as a sense of fear and dread came over him. Had Lord Grantham decided to take action to prevent his leaving with Sybil today? When he heard the soft knocking once again, he took a deep breath and slowly opened the bedroom door just a couple of inches, just enough that he could see whoever was standing there lightly rapping on the door.

The wall lamp positioned at the top of the stairway at the other end of the small hallway cast a warm glow that faded the closer it got to his room. Obviously not wanting to be recognized by anyone who might be up at this hour, his visitor stood there in the dim light wearing a long shapeless dark green cape with the hood pulled up covering most of her head. Although her head was tilted downward towards the floor allowing little of her face to be seen, Tom blinked as if he was seeing a mirage and the image of her would be replaced with someone else when he opened his eyes. But now with his eyes wide open there was no mistaking her.

His voice conveyed his surprise as he faintly uttered "Sybil?"

At his utterance she tilted her face upwards towards him and wanly smiled. He was too shocked to move and it was only her movement towards the door that caused him to open it enough for her to slip into the room. Quickly closing the door behind her, panic gripped Tom as he immediately sensed something was wrong. They were supposed to meet this morning but not this early and certainly not here in his room at the Grantham Arms but later at the railway station.

She lifted her head causing the hood to fall back fully revealing her face. He was startled by how tired and pale she looked as if she hadn't slept all night and her blue eyes were a bit glassy as if she had possibly been crying.

Before he could say anything she dropped the small leather valise he hadn't noticed she was carrying, stepped closer to him, her arms reaching out to him. He pulled her close until she was wrapped in his arms with her head resting against his chest.

Her cape was loosely tied around her neck but otherwise open allowing Tom's arms to slip underneath the bulky cape. Gently running his hands up and down her back he was struck by the thought that she wasn't wearing a corset underneath her blue flowered cotton blouse. Had she hastily dress he wondered.

They stood like that for several minutes, her head nestled on his chest, he breathing in the scent of her hair until she finally looked up at him, her face only inches from his, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Lavinia died late last night." Her husky voice was barely more than a whisper.

Pulling herself away from him she continued as she paced the room. "It was just so unexpected. She seemed to be doing well and then" her voice faltered "and then she …" Sybil stopped her pacing and turned back to look at him. "Oh Tom it was so horrible. We were all there … standing by her bedside … Matthew …"

Tom rushed to her and pulled her once again into his arms, his arms stroking her back, his lips again brushing the top of her head. "I'm sorry. She seemed like a nice lady" he murmured.

"I know I should be used to it by now … death I mean … from the war" Sybil whispered "but not like this … not someone …"

Sybil sighed deeply, her fingers digging into Tom's sides through his robe. Maybe it was the unaccustomed feel of the thin material of his robe, such a contrast to the thickness of the jacket of his chauffeur's uniform or even those of his suits that he had had worn these last few days, that broke into her consciousness for in her head she suddenly acknowledged the impropriety of her being in his bedroom and, even worse, the state of his dress. She had been rash in coming here yet she felt comfortable in his arms, his presence soothing her but she had more to say to him, much more, but now it dawned on her that maybe this wasn't the place to do so. He might balk at hearing her plans and refuse to …. No she had to be sure he left this room and got on that train. Their future depended on that.

She pulled herself away from him. The room was no longer in shadows as sunlight now filtered through the curtains filling the room with light. Looking around her heart skipped a beat as she noted his suitcases, one closed and standing upright ready to go while the smaller one sat on the rack fully opened as if waiting for last minute articles like the pajamas and robe he was now wearing.

Sitting in the corner of the room was a small desk with a leather note pad and pen sitting on it as if he had been interrupted from his writing. She smiled recognizing the fine leather note pad engraved with his initials and the gold and ebony fountain pen. She had given him the note pad last year for his birthday as he talked more and more about returning to Ireland when the war ended. At the time she wasn't sure what her answer would be, if she'd go to Ireland with him, but she had wanted him to have something to remember her by just in case.

The fountain pen had been her Christmas gift to him. By then she had given him her answer and they had begun to make plans. _Every journalist needs a good pen_ she had told him as he searched for a job as a journalist in Ireland. _But I'm not a journalist_ he had replied and with only a few negative responses to his numerous inquiries and no offers he despaired of ever becoming one. _You will, I know you will_ she had replied, her faith unwavering.

An unexpected knock on the bedroom door made both Sybil and Tom jump. His first thought was that someone from Downton had followed Sybil here and he suddenly became self-conscious that he was still wearing his nightclothes and Sybil was here in his bedroom.

The knock came again only this time accompanied by a man's voice "Mr. Branson I have your tea."

Tom sighed as relief washed over him. He motioned for Sybil to stand behind the door as he opened it just enough to take the small tea tray from Mr. Johnson the proprietor of the Grantham Arms. With his body blocking Mr. Johnson from entering the room Tom reached for the tray "I'll take that Mr. Johnson."

"Are you still leaving this morning sir?" Mr. Johnson inquired.

"Aye. I'll be leaving in an hour or two" Tom replied.

Still puzzled by the Downton chauffeur staying at the inn, Mr. Johnson groped for some answers. "Will ya be going back to the Abbey?"

Knowing that Mr. Johnson was fishing, Tom smiled. "No. I'm returning home to Ireland."

As if to emphasize his words Tom nodded at his chest. "I really need to dress and finish packing to catch my train." He started closing the door before Mr. Johnson decided to come in the room.

Firmly closing the door and turning the lock, Tom looked at Sybil who returned his gaze with a smile and a faint chuckle. "For a moment there I wondered if any other women visited your room so early in the morning" she said lightly as if the unexpected visitor had lifted the mood in the room.

Still holding the tea tray in his hands Tom replied "and I wondered if your father had sent the police after me."

"Tom" Sybil cried with fake indignity sounding so much more like herself. "Papa wouldn't want anyone to know … he'd just send …" she hesitated "maybe Carson or Isis."

For the first time that morning Tom laughed. "Or even worse O'Brien" he replied causing Sybil to also laugh.

He set the tea tray down on the desk. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked as if it was a normal thing to entertain her in his bedroom. "It would go good with those scones you have in your bag."

She glanced at her bag sitting on the floor and then back at him. "I can smell Mrs. Patmore's scones a mile away" he replied to Sybil's puzzled expression causing her to chuckle. Indeed it had been a joke between him and Mrs. Patmore how often he seemed to appear in the kitchen just as the scones came out of the oven.

Looking at her standing there smiling at him, Tom suddenly thought of how normal this would be in a few days, of how they would wake up every morning and share breakfast together.

Sybil shook her head in reply as she reached for the bag she had dropped on the floor. "I better leave before the other guests start stirring and someone sees me." Then looking directly at him, her eyes now bright with no hint of the sadness she had displayed just moments earlier, added "and you need to get ready."

Reaching into the bag she pulled out a brown paper wrapped package and set it on the tea tray. "Your scones."

"Sybil" Tom called softly as she walked towards the door causing her to halt. "You didn't just come here this morning to tell me about Miss Swire or" he nodded towards the desk "or bring me scones."

She turned to face him, the uncertainty he sensed echoed by her chewing on her lower lip and her eyes downcast as if she suddenly found the floor so interesting.

"Sybil" he quietly called once more, the Irish lilt of his voice seemingly stronger and more pronounced.

"I'll wait for you at the church Tom and we'll go together to the railway station" she responded. Mustering all she could to sound and look happy she surprised him by taking her hand and gently stroking the side of his face before kissing him lightly on the lips. But that kiss turned passionate as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back. For a minute or two both shut out the world as they hungrily devoured the other.

xxxxxx

As he buttered his toast, Robert wondered if anyone else would be joining him for breakfast this morning. Despite the tragic events of the previous night, he had awoken earlier than usual after a restless night. Lavinia's death reminded him that Cora was not yet out of the woods and he had spent time at her bedside holding her hand while she slept before finally retiring to his dressing room.

Looking out one of the large windows of the dining room, Robert noted the sky had cleared leaving no traces of the rain that had gently fallen most of the night. Yet as he looked at the clear blue sky with barely a cloud and a sun shining brightly and probably warming the spring morning air, he thought it would have been more appropriate for the sky to be dark and threatening and the air cold. After all, this would be one of the worst days of his life.

While he was truly sorry for Lavinia's death that wasn't what made this day so dreadful although it would add to the misery of it as if anything more was needed. No today was dreadful because today was the day Sybil was leaving for Ireland.

He had barely talked to her since he had tried to reason with her the morning after that man had come to the dining room and they had made their intentions known. _Your threats are hollow. I won't be received in London, I won't be welcome at Court. I couldn't care less._ He should have expected her reaction after all she had always been headstrong and stubborn. _I won't give him up._

Since then what little conversation they had had mostly centered on Cora and the others suffering from this horrible disease. He was surprised she hadn't confronted him after his meeting with Branson at the Grantham Arms. Surely the man had told her of his offer. He had probably run to her as soon as Robert left to tell her. But why hadn't she confronted him? Did she now think so little of him that she felt it wasn't even worth her time to do so?

He didn't feel guilty of his effort. She was his daughter and he loved her. How could any father let their daughter make such a mistake and destroy her life? He needed to find her … maybe it was up to him to try one more time.

How had his life suddenly become so troubled? Sybil … Cora … Robert sighed deeply.

xxxxxxxx

Tom stood at the bedroom window and watched as Sybil, the hood of her cape once again providing her some anonymity, hurriedly crossed the street and entered the church yard. She didn't look back at the Grantham Arms as she marched towards the door of the church. Even after she had opened one of the heavy wooden doors and disappeared within, he stood there staring vacantly at the church doors.

He had come to know Sybil well enough to know to there was something else on her mind. He feared what he was.

xxxxxxx

It was only when she stepped into the vestibule of the church that Sybil paused and caught her breath. As she had hoped there was no one else in the small room. She had barely sat down on the bench that ran across the back wall when she thought she should go inside the sanctuary and offer a few prayers.

Taking a seat on the back pew, Sybil stared ahead to the altar. Unlike the empty vestibule, there was an older woman kneeling at the first pew. Sybil sat there looking around the church that she had been coming to all her life. Her family had never been very religious and it had been more out of an obligation that they attended Sunday services. She smiled as she remembered that as a child she would spend the time counting the panes in the stained glass windows or debating in her mind which scene depicted in those windows she liked best or looking through the hymnal trying to decide which was her favorite rather than listening to the sermon.

She had never questioned if she believed in God, it was just something she accepted although the horror of the war had tested that belief. And now that belief was being tested again by this horrible Spanish flu that took so many like poor Lavinia. Kind, sweet Lavinia who should have been walking down this aisle in her wedding dress.

But now Sybil knelt and prayed.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom stood at the closed door of the third class carriage, his arm reaching through the door's open window to touch Sybil's outstretched hand. Even when the train's whistle blew signaling the train was ready to move the pair stood there, one on the train the other on the station platform, with their hands touching. It was only at the last possible moment as the train began its slow crawl away from the Downton railway station platform that the couple's hands finally separated.

He remained standing there with his head leaning through the open window, his arm raised in a static wave, watching his beloved fade away as the train picked up speed. Even when she was no longer visible Tom stood there looking back towards the railway station, the wind whipping across his face and blowing away the tears that fell down his cheeks.

For her part, Sybil stood at the end of the station platform watching Tom's train slowly disappear. She remained glued to her spot even after the train was long gone from sight, her eyes still focused on the path the train had taken unaware she was now the sole person remaining on the station platform. Finally inhaling deeply, Sybil turned to walk back to Downton.

xxxxx

Mary had awoken that morning after a fitful night's sleep that left her unrested. Her dreams, or had she really been awake, had been full of Matthew and Lavinia and Sir Richard. She remembered the unexpected feeling of Matthew holding her close as they danced alone in the great hall, drawing her into a kiss and then the guilt that flashed through her mind when Lavinia suddenly appeared at the top of the landing calling out to Matthew.

To add to her misery, or was it guilt, that she felt over Lavinia's sudden death Mary woke with the realization that this morning Sybil was leaving for Ireland. Looking at the clock sitting across the room on the fireplace mantel, Mary bolted out of bed afraid that she might miss seeing her youngest sister off. She didn't bother ringing for Anna instead choosing to dress herself in a simple gray dress the color of which matched her mood. After several mishaps she managed to wrap her hair into a messy bun.

Mary made herself presentable enough to leave her room and set off for Sybil's room. She pulled her hand away from the door knob, pausing at the closed bedroom door to take a moment to compose herself. Sybil had always been her one true ally, the one person who saw through the facade of coolness and reserve that Mary presented to the world. Mary flinched as realized that Sybil thought far better of her than Mary often did of herself. She had defended Sybil's decision only because she loved her but that didn't mean she actually wanted her to marry the chauffeur and run away to Ireland. Mary loved her youngest sister more than she had loved anyone else and she despaired thinking of what awaited her in Ireland.

Sybil wasn't in her bedroom but the suitcase and trunk still lying on the floor assured her that Sybil hadn't yet left Downton. Mary was surprised as she looked around the sunlight filled room that there was no evidence its owner was moving out other than the suitcase and trunk laying on the floor. The nightstands still held the framed photographs and a book lay on one of them as if waiting for the owner to pick it up and finish reading it. The vanity table still held the variety of porcelain bowls and boxes that always sat there as well as Sybil's comb and brush set.

Mary was halfway down the grand staircase when she met her father coming up the stairs. He too looked as if he had had a terrible night.

"Have you seen your sister?" Robert barked. Mary needn't ask which sister he was referring to.

Shaking her head no, Mary replied "Sybil's not in her room. I thought she might be at breakfast."

"No she hasn't been to breakfast." Mary detected a slight bit of vexation in her father's voice.

"Maybe she's with mama" Mary offered.

"Or she's just left without bothering to say goodbye." The vexation in Robert's voice was no longer subtle.

"Papa you know she wouldn't do that." Now it was Mary's turn to sound annoyed.

Robert shook his head. "I don't know anything about my daughter anymore."

xxxx

Tom didn't know how long he had stood there staring vacantly down the railway tracks towards Downton before finally turning around to take his seat in the train carriage. Luckily the compartment was empty so Tom didn't have the eyes of strangers watching him.

Sitting on the seat beside him was the leather bag that Sybil had carried with her to the Grantham Arms. Only it wasn't an overnight bag as he thought when he briefly first saw the bag laying on the floor of his room where Sybil had dropped it. It was only later, at the church, when Sybil handed it to him that he realized it was the type of bag that he had seen the lawyer Mr. Murray and some of the businessmen he had chauffeured from the railway station to Downton carry. It was the type of bag such men used to carry their paperwork and pens.

" _You're a professional journalist now Tom and every journalist should have a bag like this."_

He ran his hand across the gold lettering _T Branson_ embossed on the camel colored soft leather. It was without doubt the finest piece of leather work he had ever owned. He briefly wondered if any of his coworkers would have such a fine bag or would it make him stand out. Would it make him seem to grand?

" _I was going to surprise you with this on your first day of work."_

Tom closed his eyes as his fingers lingered on the embossed _T Branson,_ the vision of Sybil filling his mind. It was supposed to be one of his happiest days for he was returning home, home to his family, home to Ireland and she was supposed to be sitting here beside him. What she had said had taken him by complete surprise and while he understood her reasoning, truly he did, it didn't make it easier to accept.

" _This hasn't been an easy decision for me Tom but …" Sybil faltered as tears began filling her eyes. "It's just that since last night … since Lavinia … I … I can't come with you today. I can't leave until I know Mama will be all right."_

 _He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut._

" _Tom" she called softly as she reached up with both of her hands to gently stroke the sides of his face. But Tom seemed frozen in place, his eyes seemingly boring through her. Then as she gently stroked his face, his eyes closed._

" _I swear Tom I haven't changed my mind about us. As soon as Mama is on the mend I'll leave for Ireland."_

xxxx

Sybil trudged back to the abbey. The long cape she had worn to visit Tom was no longer needed now that the bright sunshine had warmed the air but she didn't seem to have the energy to remove it. As she walked passed the oversized stone pillars of the entrance gate and the house came into view, Sybil paused to take in the sight of the grand house. Yesterday afternoon when she had met Tom here in this very spot she had thought today she would be on a train heading towards Ireland.

But everything had changed late last night. Lavinia's death had come so shockingly fast and so unexpected for she had never seemed that ill especially not like Mama who in the last day or two had seemed to fade in and out of consciousness. After watching Lavinia die Sybil had made her decision but she knew Tom would fear the worst that she had changed her mind or was having second thoughts and so it was that as she sat at her vanity she had thought of her grandparents' gift.

" _When I was born my grandfather Levinson in America created a trust fund for me like he did with my sisters." She had gotten Tom to sit down beside her on the bench in the church's vestibule and listen to her._

" _And my grandparents also bought me something." Sybil reached into the satchel she had just given Tom and brought out a small square box with a dark blue ribbon tied both lengthwise and crosswise around it. Tucked under the ribbon was what Tom thought was probably a note card._

 _Sybil didn't open the box but rather sat there holding it in her hands. Looking down at the box she said "In this box is a necklace and earring set that my grandparents want me to wear on my wedding day."_

 _Sybil looked up at Tom and offered him the box. "I'm entrusting this box to you. When I walk down the aisle in Dublin I'll be wearing this jewelry."_

Arriving back home, Sybil went directly to her mother's bedroom. As she had for the past couple of days, O'brien was sitting at her mother's bedside wiping Cora's face with a cold damp cloth.

O'brien flicked a glance at Sybil as she entered the room and then turned back to Cora. Even in that momentary glance Sybil could read the disdain for her on O'brien's face. Undaunted Sybil removed her cape and flung it over the padded bench at the foot of her parents' bed.

"How is she doing?" Sybil quietly asked.

Without bothering to look at her O'brien replied "About the same."

Sybil looked at her mother whose eyes were closed in a restless sleep evidenced by the way her head pitched from side to side.

"You can take a break O'brien" Sybil announced.

"I don't need a break" came the terse reply as O'brien continued wiping Cora's face with the damp cloth.

Sybil audibly inhaled. "I want to be alone with my mother."

Not accustomed to such an authoritative tone from this one, O'brien snapped her head in Sybil's direction, a smart retort on her lips. But seeing the steel in Sybil's eyes O'brien thought better of it. She sat the bowl of water on the nightstand and dumped the cloth in it before rising from her chair.

She waited until she was almost at the bedroom door before looking at Sybil. "I thought you would be on your way to Ireland by now" she smirked.

Sybil wouldn't give this odious woman an explanation so, hopefully sounding more cheerful that she felt, she replied "soon O'brien soon." Then turning to look at her mother she added "please shut the door behind you."

Sybil chided herself for being so short with the lady's maid especially since O'brien had been unexpectedly compassionate towards Cora. Since Cora had fallen ill, O'brien had rarely left her side.

Before taking the seat O'brien had just vacated, Sybil gently stroked her mother's forehead which felt no warmer than it had last night. Maybe that was a good sign Sybil thought, maybe I'll be able to leave here earlier than I told Tom.

Tom … at the thought of him Sybil closed her eyes and saw him as he stood there at the carriage's window, his arm outstretched and his fingers touching hers, his eyes boring into her as if he was memorizing her face.

" _We'll know in a couple of days if she'll …" Sybil couldn't bring herself to say the words._

" _Then I'll stay and we can leave together as we planned" Tom replied. "I'll contact the newspaper and tell them—"_

" _No!" Sybil interrupted him. "We've already postponed our leaving once Tom. They told you you have to be at the office the day after tomorrow."_

 _Sybil stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Her head against his chest, she could feel his heart beat. "This is our chance Tom. Our future. You have to be there. We can't let this job slip away."_

 _His hands ran up and down her back while his lips brushed the top of her head. He knew she was right but it didn't make him any happier._

Sybil sat down wearily in the chair beside her mother's bed. Taking hold of her mother's hand she quietly said to the sleeping woman "Mama we haven't had a chance to talk about Tom. I need you to understand …"

 **A/N: Well it's only taken me seven chapters to get Tom to leave Downton alone. I hope you liked the way their conversation at the church played out in this chapter. So we've seen one unexpected turn. I promise in the next two chapters we'll see what else fate has in store and we'll learn the reason for the title of this story. As always thank you for the reviews. I also appreciate the follows and favorites.**


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I can't believe how long it has been since I updated this story and I apologize for that. I hope it will still find an audience, if so I promise the next update will not be so long in coming.

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"There's so much I should have said to you."

As Sybil continued to talk her mother's restlessness seemed to abate as there was no more of the thrashing her head and arms that had been so difficult to watch. As her breathing became steadier she fell into a more peaceful sleep which Sybil considered a good sign but then she thought once again of Lavinia whose end had come on so sudden and so unexpected.

Even though it was doubtful that her mother had heard any of Sybil's words, Sybil felt a relief just finally expressing out loud her feelings for Tom. She talked of how she had found a kindred spirit in him with their mutual love of books and much of the same political and social views. She talked of how much he had helped her during the war, listening to her, comforting her and most of all encouraging her when she questioned her capabilities.

She talked of how they had become friends and how that friendship had grown into love.

She realized now that maybe they, or at least she, should have come to her mother earlier. That night in the dining room had caught her parents so off guard. Yet, unlike her father, her mother hadn't made any unkind or derogatory remarks about Tom. _To live with him? Unmarried?_ Sybil emitted a sigh thinking that was the only concern her mother had voiced. And just like that Sybil's relief was overpowered by indignation. Why had her mother thought Tom's intentions were less than honorable? If Tom had been the son of an Earl or even a Baron would she have immediately thought that?

Now she knew why she had never discussed Tom before with anyone from her family. Even after the aborted elopement, her sisters had acted like it never happened. Neither of them had ever inquired about Tom or her feelings for him as if her running off to marry had just been a lark.

Sybil closed her eyes and rubbed her hands on her face. She was so tired mentally, of acting, of pretending but now she was also so very tired physically. Opening her eyes, Sybil shuddered as the room suddenly seemed so oppressive. Although it was early afternoon, the room was dark and gloomy with the curtains pulled tight across the windows blocking any sunlight from penetrating through the heavy drapes. Also contributing to the gloominess, or maybe because of the gloominess Sybil thought, the air seemed stale and stuffy.

She stood up with the purpose in mind to open those curtains and make the room a little bit cheerier but quickly sat back down as a wave of dizziness overcame her. Taking some deeps breaths she reminded herself that it had been an emotional morning. Heck, if she was honest with herself it had been an emotional roller coaster since that night in the dining room. _Plus I haven't eaten anything since that scone so early this morning_ she thought.

On her second attempt to open the curtains she made it to the middle window before she felt another wave of dizziness although it didn't seem as deep as the previous one. Plopping down on the cushioned window seat Sybil again took in deep breaths. It had been a long time since she had sat on one of the window seats in her mother's bedroom. There had been a time, probably from when she was four or five till she was ten or so, that she'd come in here and sit at this very window. While her mother dressed, Sybil would talk about whatever came to mind. Often her mother would come and sit next to her and tell Sybil a story of her childhood or they'd watch for animals like rabbits or hedgehogs that seemed to like foraging in the grounds below the window. That had been a time it when seemed like she could talk to her mother about anything.

Sybil glanced once again over to the bed where her mother continued to sleep. Remembering those days brought a tear to Sybil's eyes. Somehow as she had aged, the differences between her and her mother had grown more pronounced. Her mother had come from a world so different from that of Downton and yet now she seemed to represent so much of what Sybil longed to change. If only Mama was a bit more like Grandmama who didn't seem so enamored with the strict social structure of the Crawleys' world.

"Sybil!" Hearing her name, Sybil turned to face the doorway. Mary stood there smiling.

"I was afraid you … I was angry thinking you had left without …" Mary's smile vanished as she walked across the room. She had made it half way across the room when she stopped. Creasing her brows she looked puzzled. "But I thought your train left hours ago …"

Sybil looked down at her lap as she sighed. "It did." Her voice was barely audible and Mary was sure Sybil's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"Did Branson leave?"

Sybil slowly nodded her head.

"But why … why didn't you leave?"

"I couldn't leave … I-" Detecting movement behind Mary, Sybil abruptly stopped talking. Tilting her head slightly she saw that the odious O'brien, holding a porcelain basin, was standing barely inside the doorway staring at her.

Aware that Sybil now saw her, O'brien stepped further into the room. "I've brought fresh water" she said as she slightly lifted the basin as if to prove her statement.

Mary now turned to face O'brien. "Just put it on the nightstand and we'll-"

"No it's alright Mary. O'brien can take over." Sybil glanced over to the large four poster bed as she walked towards her sister. Taking Mary's arm she continued "Mama's sleeping and I need to eat something."

Mary arched her eyebrow when Sybil unexpectedly took hold of her arm and led the two of them out of the room. It wasn't until they had taken a few steps down the corridor that Mary looked at Sybil and saw how pale she was and realized Sybil has holding her arm for support.

"Sybil are you feeling alright?"

"It's been a … rather straining day for me and I" Sybil spoke slowly "I think I just need to get something to eat."

Then it happened. It was so fast that Mary didn't even realize what had happened. One minute they were walking slowly down the corridor and then the next minute Sybil was lying on the floor.

"Sybil!" Mary screamed as she knelt down beside her sister whose eyes were closed but she made no response. She gently ran her hand across Sybil's forehead which felt so hot to her touch.

"Sybil!" she cried again as she shook her sister's still body but there was no response. It was only then that she realized there was blood oozing from a cut on the side of Sybil's head.

Mary stared in disbelief … what could possibly have caused … it was then as she stood up she noticed the hall table positioned beside them and that Sybil must have hit her head when she fainted.

xxxxx

Robert was sitting at his desk working on his correspondence when the quietness of the room was shattered by the door being flung open and Mary rushing into the room. Seeing the look of panic on her face, he immediately stood up, fearing the worse.

"Is it Cora?" he whispered.

Mary shook her head. "No Papa … it's … it's Sybil."

xxxxxx

Tom stood at the stern of the ferry watching the final preparations for its departure. Although the sun had set some time ago the sky was still in that phase where the lingering light of the sun hadn't yet given in to the night. The pier was dotted with lampposts that cast an unexpected artificial brightness. From this vantage point on the open deck he had a good view of not only the pier but much of the surrounding city which he thought looked much nicer now than in the earlier fading daylight when he had walked around. Tom had first come to Liverpool when he arrived from Dublin on his way to his new job as chauffeur at Downton. He hadn't seen much of the city since he had gone straight from the ferry terminal to the railway station. Nor did he see any more of the city on his one trip back to Dublin in 1915.

For this trip he had arranged their arrival in Liverpool with time to walk about a bit before the ferry left. More importantly he wanted to take Sybil to a restaurant for dinner before they embarked on the overnight ferry. Although he was carefully watching his budget, despite the fact that he had saved quite a bit from his chauffeur salary, Tom wanted to take advantage of his first opportunity to actually sit with Sybil in a restaurant and partake of a meal. After all the years of their relationship having to be kept hidden and thus largely confined to the motor car or the garage, it was wonderful to think they could finally be out together in public just like any other ordinary couple.

As Tom stood here watching the gangway finally being pulled away from the ferry, he thought of how his plans hadn't gone as he had hoped. His dinner had been fish and chips consumed while sitting alone on a bench rather than the restaurant meal with Sybil sitting across the table from him instead he had envisioned.

He had wondered what thoughts would play in Sybil's mind as the ferry pulled away from the dock and her homeland faded as the ferry made its way to Ireland. Would it strike her just then the enormity of her decision? Or would she just turn to face Ireland and her new home? Would she even share with him her thoughts? Unlike him, Sybil was much more restrained in sharing her feelings.

Tom stood on the deck lost in his thoughts until the lights of Liverpool were barely visible in the distance. It was only when a gust of sea breeze whipped across the deck and made him shiver in the early spring evening that he thought of finally making his way inside. Before doing so he looked up at the night sky which now twinkled with what seemed like hundreds of stars surrounding only a sliver of a moon.

He scanned the sky searching for stars he knew. There … there was the North Star and from that he could make out the Plough, part of the constellation Ursa Major. Sybil had taught him about the stars and the constellations like Orion the Hunter and Pegasus the Flying Hunter and Ursa Major. Until he had come to Downton he hadn't really ever thought about the stars. Sure he'd notice when there was a full moon but otherwise he hadn't paid attention to the stars which were too often invisible behind the city's lights and the haze from many of the city's factories. But at Downton it was hard not to notice the stars.

 _It was too nice of an evening to retire to his cottage just yet. The warmness of the spring day still lingered in the air and hinted of the summer soon to come. He sat outside on a blanket with his back resting on the outer wall of the garage. His bottle of cider was still cool and he found it refreshing, that it was something he was sure Carson would frown upon only made it taste even better. He chuckled thinking that Carson would probably be even more upset with his sitting here his uniform jacket unbuttoned and his tie lying somewhere in the garage._

 _He had never seen so many stars and he was so concentrating on the sight above him that he never heard her footsteps, in fact it wasn't until she spoke that he became aware of her presence._

" _I wouldn't have guessed you to be a star gazer Branson." She spoke in that deep husky voice that made him think of a fine rich whiskey._

 _He looked at her appraisingly taking in the fine profile of her face as she looked up at the sky. When she turned her gaze back to him, a smile on her face and, he would swear a twinkle in her eyes, he suddenly remembered his place. "Milady" he stated as he quickly began buttoning his jacket while he started to stand "do you need the motor car?"_

" _No … no …" she stretched out her hand to emphasize her words. "I don't mean to interrupt you. Please … stay" and then to his amazement she sat down beside him. She was close enough that he could smell her lilac perfume but far enough away that their bodies could not accidently touch._

 _He silently wondered what she was doing out here alone at this time of night and it was as if she had read his mind. Her face remained tilting upward to look at the sky. "I often like to take a walk after dinner especially on nights as fine as this one."_

 _Her voice full of glee, she pointed to the sky "there do you see it?"_

 _Although he was looking at where she was pointing, he had no idea what she was talking about._

" _I'm not quite sure what you're talking about milady" he responded._

" _It's Orion the Hunter." She turned to look at him, a mischievous grin on her face. "Don't you know the stars?"_

 _He shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not an area I have much knowledge of."_

 _She clapped her hands as she smiled. "Good. Finally, there's something I can teach you about."_

The air had become chillier as the wind whipped up making Tom realize he needed to head to the lounge. Hopefully he'd still be able to find a seat to spend the night in. Without Sybil he felt no need to have a cabin and had turned in his ticket for a refund.

Before leaving he turned once more towards where he thought England was which was no longer visible in the darkness. She'd be alone with them and he'd bet that his lordship and her sister would try their hardest to make her realize the error of her ways. Reaching into the leather bag he wore over his shoulder he felt around until his hand touched the small oblong box tied with a blue ribbon. _"I'm entrusting this box to you. When I walk down the aisle in Dublin I'll be wearing this jewelry."_

His fingers wrapped around the small box, he silently prayed for her strength.

xxxx

Mary sat on the edge of Sybil's bed holding her hand. Doctor Clarkson had just left after delivering the news she feared.

Robert stood holding on to one of the bedposts.

"I'll stay with her for a while" Mary said.

Robert nodded. "Of course."

He started to leave the room weaving his way around the trunk and suitcases that still sat on the bedroom floor.

"Did she tell you why she didn't leave with him?"

Mary shook her head.

"I'll send for Anna to empty these" he pointed to the trunk and suitcases "to put all her things back in place and then have one of the footmen carry these cases back to the attic. It will be like she was never going to leave."


	9. Chapter 9

Surprise! After abandoning this story for so long I've finally got my groove back so in case you missed it, I posted another new chapter just a week ago. Thanks as always for the reviews - it's always wonderful and encouraging to hear from those of you who are enjoying this story.

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The lounge was less than half full so Tom easily found a seat away from anyone else where he could rest his head against the cabin wall while having plenty of room to stretch out his legs. The lights of the cabin had been dimmed so that those sitting in here could sleep and some of his fellow passengers appeared already asleep while others talked in soft voices that matched the muted lighting. Leaning his head against the wall he looked out the big picture window at the blackness outside. From here, the sky no longer seemed covered in stars as it had when he stood on the outside deck but he was still able to see a few stars twinkling in the distance. He wasn't really sleepy as he had only come in to escape the darkness and ensuing cold of the sea air so he wasn't even aware of falling asleep but the gentle rocking of the ship lulled him into a surprisingly peaceful sleep.

He woke with a start, startled by some sounds that in his sleepy state he couldn't quite identify. Looking out the window he was surprised to find the sky was no longer an inky blackness broken here and there by twinkling stars. Instead the inkiness had lightened to a steely blue with streaks of pinks and yellows attesting to the sun that was fast rising behind the ship. The sharp squawking of several sea gulls hovering around the ship solved the mystery of what had woken him but more importantly let him know the ship was close to its destination.

He looked around to see if anyone was preparing for the ship's docking but it seemed most of the other passengers that had also sought the comfort of the lounge rather than spending money on their own personal cabins were just now also awaking. Tom stiffened as he spied a group of British soldiers isolated from the rest of the passengers in the far corner of the room from where he was sitting. He, like his fellow passengers, at least those he surmised were Irish which seemed to be the majority, quickly turned his sight away from them.

Upon see the soldiers he was gripped by a sudden burst of uneasiness. It was a strange sensation since he had been among British soldiers so much during the war, ferrying them from the railway station to the hospital or the Abbey, moving their beds or furniture in the convalescent home the Abbey had become, fixing their broken wheelchairs, and he had never felt uneasy among them. He had sometimes felt sorrow or pity for the gravely injured and sometimes resentment and disapproval of the more arrogant officers recuperating in the luxury of the Abbey but he had never felt uneasy.

But that had been a different sort of war.

 _You don't know what it's like here now with British soldiers and even worse the Black and Tans everywhere._ The words of his mother's letter now flowed through his head. This letter was the second one to come from his mother in response to his and Sybil's plans. In her first letter, which he and Sybil had anxiously awaited, she had called them foolish yet had consented to Sybil staying with her until the wedding.

However, her second letter was much different than her first one and Tom hadn't shared it with Sybil. As the years had passed and he admitted to himself that he had fallen in love, he had hinted of his friendship with a local girl in his letters home but had never actually written about his feelings for her nor had he named her as the Earl's youngest daughter. Yet he always thought that his mother had seen through his words for she had warned him to be careful in his dealings with his employer's family, that his job hinged on his behavior. This second letter only confirmed his suspicions as she expressed she wasn't surprised that Tom was in love but was surprised that the Lady Sybil returned his affections.

 _I long to see you again my beloved son and am anxious to meet the woman who has captured your heart. I am sure she is a lovely person – how could she not be for I know you could only love someone who is kind and caring, intelligent and curious about the world around them - but I'm not sure how accepted she will be here simply because she is English._

Although Mam had written that she would accept Sybil and so would those living in her house she couldn't vouch that the rest of his family or neighbors would do so. _You don't realize how much the Black and Tans are hated here for the atrocities they are inflicting on ordinary people like us. I'm afraid that hatred could be transferred to your Sybil_.

His mother had gone on to implore him to reconsider his plans. _As much as I miss you and long to wrap my arms around you, to talk endlessly into the night with you, I beg you to reconsider your plans. If you can't give her up then maybe you should find a place in England that might be more hospitable to a pair like you two._

Maybe there was one good thing about Sybil not making the journey with him he thought. He'd have some time to prepare his family for her presence, to let them know she sided with freedom for Ireland. And he'd remind them of Maud Gonne and Countess Markievicz both of whom were British born.

The British soldiers had become rather loud much to the consternation of the other passengers especially those who were still trying to catch a few more minutes of sleep. Tom longed for a cup of hot tea but thought he'd wait until the ferry docked and then find a place in town to get tea and maybe a scone or a thick slice of soda bread. Or maybe he'd just wait until he reached his mother's house for surely she'd lay out a fine breakfast spread to welcome him home especially since she still thought Sybil would be with him.

Tom took his two battered suitcases and went out on deck to await their arrival at the port of Kingstown. As soon as he stepped out on the deck he was hit with a blast of chilly sea air causing him to pause and button up his suit jacket and wish that he had on a warmer jumper underneath rather than a plain cotton shirt. Yet as he rounded the corner he found it much warmer thanks to the cabin walls of the lounge blocking much of the wind. While still wearing his precious leather bag strapped over his shoulder he set his two suitcases on the deck. The streaks of pinks and yellows that had earlier filled the sky had been replaced by a light blue sky. A few dark and ominous clouds loomed over the far distant mountains but here over the sea the sky was clear.

Tom spotted a few fishing boats bobbing around in the fairly calm water. During his last trip home he had been met with blinding rain after enduring a churning sea all night with a gale wind blowing. He smiled thinking maybe the calm waters sparkling in the sunshine was a promising omen for his new life.

From his spot on this upper deck, Tom looked out at the sparse waiting crowd on the pier hoping to see a familiar face. But it was quite a trip from his mother's house to Kingstown and he didn't really expect to find one of his brothers waiting for him. Realizing passengers were beginning to disembark, Tom picked up his suitcases and made his way to the gangway. As he walked down the gangway he was surprised by the number of uniformed soldiers who were stationed around the pier carefully observing the disembarking passengers.

As he headed for the railway station, Tom was surprised to hear a voice calling "Tom … Tom." He looked in the direction of the voice but not really expecting to be the Tom they were seeking.

"Have ya been gone so long ya not remembered my face or voice?"

Spotting his cousin Odhran, Tom's face broke out in a big grin. "It's been far too long but I'd never forget a face like yours."

Tom laughed as he and Odhran hugged.

"So what are you doing here?" Tom asked. Growing up he and Odhran and their cousin Bill had been close, in fact Tom was much closer to them than his own brothers. But that close knit trio had been broken when Tom left for England and now would never be again with Bill's unwarranted death at the hands of a British soldier.

"Your ma didn't want your-" Odhran paused. Creasing his brows he looked around them.

Realizing that Odhran was searching for Sybil, Tom volunteered "Sybil's not here."

Seeing the look on Odhran's face, Tom shook his head. "It's not like that. Her mother has the Spanish Flu and Sybil couldn't leave her until she knew for sure ..." Tom began explaining about Lavinia's sudden death and Sybil's fear of losing her mother. "I expect she'll be here in two maybe three weeks."

Odhran nodded in understanding. "I was looking forward to meeting the lass." Grinning he added "I want to see the woman that captured your heart … I mean if you didn't take Katie McGinty or Mara Willis …" he shrugged his shoulders while Tom laughed.

"You'll see when you meet her. I couldn't help but fall in love. That she fell in love with me" Tom grinned as he shrugged his shoulders "I'm a very lucky man."

"Well we could stand here all day under the watchful eyes of those dirty Brits" Odhran suddenly stopped and gulped. "I don't mean … I … I didn't … Sybil"

Seeing how uncomfortable Ohdran had become Tom patted his arm. "It's okay. I guess I'll get a lot of that. But Sybil isn't like them." He glanced toward the nearest soldiers. "She believes in independence for Ireland."

Odhran nodded. "Of course." He glanced down at Tom's suitcases. "Well I better get you to your mother's. We can talk on the way."

Tom was amazed when Odhran led him to a 1913 Napier truck with the words _Hanaran's Furniture_ painted on the sides of the wooden back.

"Now you see why I'm the one that came here to get you. Plenty of room for luggage." Odhdran laughed.

"So you're doing so well that you have your own truck now?"

"Aye Tom. People always need furniture." Odhran lifted one of Tom's suitcases and put it in the back of the truck while Tom did the same with the other one.

When Odhran nodded at the leather bag Tom still wore across his shoulder Tom shook his head. "I'll keep this one with me." He didn't want to explain to his cousin that he wouldn't let this bag or more particularly the small oblong box containing Sybil's jewelry it held out of his sight.

The trip to his family home gave Tom and Odhran plenty of time to catch up. Odhran had only written a few letters to Tom during his time in England usually at Christmas and Tom was sorry he hadn't been able to attend Odhran's wedding almost three years ago. When Odhran had written that he was marrying Tom was shocked that it wasn't to Kathleen Hackett who Odhran had mooned over since the boys had first started noticing girls.

"I want you to come over for dinner as soon as you can" Odhran said. "I want you to meet Mairead and little Connor."

"It seems strange doesn't it" Tom answered "to think we're grown old enough for wives and children. Sometimes I wonder where that boy that loved fishing and playing with matchstick cars or building forts with anything we could savage …" Tom looked out the side window at the streets he had run wild on as a boy. "But now I spend my time reading politics and thinking of the injustices of the world and …"

"You always were the serious one Tom. Even though you pulled off as many pranks as the rest of us there was that side of you. You've always seen the unfairness."

"You always wanted something more." Odhran turned towards Tom and smiled. "And now look at ya. Coming back as a journalist with a Lady soon to be your wife."

The truck stopped in front of the Branson family home. "Your Ma's really proud of you Tom. She's been looking forward to this day for so long."

Tom expected utter chaos in the house with all his brothers and sisters filling the front parlor but it was strangely quiet with no one in sight as he and Odhran entered the small foyer. As they set Tom's luggage on the floor of the parlor, he heard the faint sounds of pans clanging and smelled the aroma of freshly baked bread.

Odhran stayed behind in the foyer as Tom walked down the long hallway to the kitchen. Standing in the kitchen doorway, Tom watched as his mother leaned over the oven to pull out a pan. Tom had always thought his mother had a second sense when it came to her boys as she always seemed to know where they were and what they were doing and she showed this now as she set the pan on the stove top and turned around to face her son, a bring grin on her face.

Wiping her hands on her apron, "Tom" she said in that lovely Irish voice that he had so missed.

"Ma" he replied, his grin matching hers.

Moving with a quick agility that belied her years, Claire Branson moved across the room. "Oh let me look at ya" she said as she ran her hands across his shoulders.

Tears glimmered in her eyes. "Your home son. Finally your home."

"Aye Ma" Tom kissed her cheek and then pulled her in for a close hug. "I'm home." He kissed the top of her head.

They stood with their arms wrapped around each other for a minute or two when Claire suddenly pulled away and looked towards the doorway. "And where-"

"She's not here Ma."

xxxxx

"The evening post milord" Carson announced as he handed Robert several envelopes.

Seated as his desk, Robert laid the post on the desk top. Noticing that Carson remained standing there he looked at the tall butler. "Is there something else Carson?"

Looking quite serious the butler replied "I was just wondering about Lady Sybil."

Robert nodded. "She's … she's …" he hesitated as he turned his head towards the window for he didn't want Carson to see the tears that suddenly filled his eyes. "It seems quite serious Carson, not just with this dreadful flu but the hit on her head when she fainted."

"She's young milord and strong and-" Carson stopped as the image of Miss Squire came to his mind.

"Strong willed and strong minded" Robert interrupted.

Carson stood there silently wondering what, if anything, to say. He slightly bowed and turned to leave the library.

"Carson!" The butler stopped and turned back towards Robert. "Branson left and Lady Sybil did not go with him."

Carson nodded. He was still embarrassed to have witness that scene in the dining room. Although it was known that Lady Mary was his favorite, he did have a soft spot for Lady Sybil. Even though she didn't have her sister's elegance and sense of decorum, in fact the child had been quite an imp with her liveliness and mischievousness but she had always been a ray of sunshine in an otherwise staid and sedate environment. Yet he had been surprised and appalled at their announcement in the dining room. Never could he envision such a thing. A Lady of the house and that … that … It had to be he had seduced the innocent young lady despite whatever the lad had said.

"I think we can put this whole sordid incident away."

"Of course milord."

When it was obvious that Robert would say no more Carson took his leave.

Although Robert was naturally curious as to what had happened with Branson, he would not broach the subject with his daughter. He thought it obvious that she had come to her senses and realized what a mistake she had made.

He reached for the photograph he kept on his desk of her. The photographer had done such a wonderful job capturing her spirit. Her hair was wildly disheveled with wisps of it blowing in the wind but it was the look on her face, the wide grin, the impish glint in her eyes, that spoke of her liveliness.

True to his aristocratic upbringing, he wasn't a man that voiced his feelings unlike his youngest daughter. As a child she always seemed to express her happiness or sadness or anger. She was hell on wheels when she was mad or angry which luckily wasn't that often.

He ran his hand across the photograph and wondered what had happened these last few years. How had she become like a stranger to him? He stared at the photograph before silently saying a prayer for her recovery.

Putting the silver framed photograph back in its place, he looked down at his desk and saw the post. Picking up the stack of envelopes, he quickly glanced at each one, noting the return addressee, before laying it down on the desk. It was the postcard with a picture of a ship that stopped him. Curious, he turned it over and was surprised to see it was address to Lady Sybil Crawley. But it was the name of the sender that turned his blood cold. _Love Tom._

His anger rose as he read what Branson had written and he threw the card down on his desk. Then just as quickly he picked it up again and tore it into bits. His daughter would not see this card nor any other mail that might come from this agitator.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N Sorry for the delay in this update - I've had a terrible case of writer's block with this chapter. I do have the story outlined so I know where it's going but am having a bit of trouble getting there. I've written and rewritten this chapter several times but the upshot of which is most of the next chapter is written. Anyway thanks to everyone for their reviews.

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"I'm sorry it wasn't the homecoming you were probably expecting" Oonagh said as she sat down next to Tom on the top step of the tiny porch that was barely wide enough for the two of them to sit side by side.

The steps led to the small back garden of the Branson house. Sitting here alone on the porch Tom had thought about how large this area had seemed when he was a young boy, how many hours he had spent tinkering here with bits and bobs he had found in his wanderings around the neighborhood. From such discarded bits he had crafted toys not just for himself but also his brothers and sisters while pieces of wood or broken furniture had been rebuilt into bookcases or small tables some of which he had actually sold.

Now most of the area was a vegetable garden lovingly tended by his mother fulfilling a long dream of hers. She had always wanted a garden but with six children using the area as a playground that had been a rather futile desire. However, with her children grown and all except the two youngest no longer at home, she had turned to gardening and discovered she had a bit of a green thumb. Some of the dinner Tom had just eaten had been vegetables she had canned or preserved the previous summer or fall.

He had thought how astounded his mother would be to see the fruit and vegetable gardens at Downton. It seemed liked there was an endless array of fruits and vegetables some of which he had never tasted before like asparagus, which was way too expensive for his family, and others that he had never even seen before. It wasn't that the climate in Yorkshire was so much warmer but with the greenhouses the Downton gardeners were able to grow fruits and vegetables that otherwise wouldn't have a chance there.

Leaning her head on his shoulder Oonagh continued "or what you deserve."

Tom turned his head to look at his youngest sister. Oonagh had just turned thirteen when he had left for England six years ago. Yet in some ways he always felt closer to her than his other siblings. Since she began walking Oonagh would follow him around and he had spent many an evening reading to her. She had cried her heart out when he left for England and had religiously written to him while he sent her small gifts of hair ribbons and combs as well as some trinkets and articles of clothing like scarves, gloves, sweaters some of which were hand me downs from Sybil.

"The meal was wonderful. Even though I was always well fed at Downton, so many times I longed for Ma's cooking." Tom gave a slight smile hoping not to betray his hurt at his brother Cillian not bothering to showing up while Brian didn't even appear until everyone was finished eating. At least his oldest brother Sean had the excuse of living on his father-in-law's farm outside of Althone. Nor did he want to talk about his sister Aideen's husband Liam who had made clear his thoughts on the English.

"We don't see Cillian much. I don't know what he does and I'm not sure I really want to know. As for Liam" Oonagh paused and took a deep breath as she looked around the small enclosed garden. "You've been away so long Tommy … and things here have gotten-"

"Ma had tried to warn me what it would be like but I didn't think my own family would …" Tom stopped suddenly wondering what would have happened if Sybil had been here and what would happen when she did get here.

As if reading his mind, Oonagh said "I think it's one thing to talk about the English in general and quite another to talk about a specific person. I'm sure we'll all love Sybil."

She put her arm around Tom's waist. "I'm disappointed she isn't with you. I can't wait to meet her. Ever since you wrote about her coming here with you I've been trying to imagine what she's like."

Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out his worn leather wallet. Tucked into the large side pocket was a photograph of Sybil which had been taken the day of that garden party. That day when they had held hands, when he had been bold enough to ask her if she'd … well he never got to finish that question with Mrs. Hughes suddenly interrupting him and then later the party ending so abruptly with his lordship announcing England was at war with Germany. A few days later he had been in the library to return a book when he spied a pile of photographs from that day sitting on one of the small side tables.

Tom gingerly lifted the photograph out of his wallet and handed it to Oonagh. The photographer had done a wonderful job capturing Sybil in the candid photograph. Whenever he looked at that photograph it reminded him of possibilities … _I don't suppose …_

"She's even more beautiful than I imagined" Oonagh exclaimed.

Tom's face erupted in a broad smile as he looked at the photograph Oonagh was holding. "Aye she's beautiful but it's not just her physical beauty she's kind and caring. I mean not many of her kind would ever consider working but she wants to continue with her nursing."

Even in the faded light of the setting sun, Oonagh could tell Tom's face lit up just talking about Sybil. "It might be hard for others to see but we're so much alike. We have the same interests in books, justice, women's rights."

"I knew she'd have to be wonderful for you to fall in love with her."

"She believes in freedom for Ireland" Tom proudly remarked.

Oonagh handed the photograph back to her brother and then surprising him by kissing him on the cheek. "I'm so happy for you Tom."

The pair sat there quietly on the small stoop, her arm around his waist and Tom's arm around her shoulder, each lost in their own thoughts.

It was Oonagh who finally broke the silence. "I'm not sure I've ever properly thanked you for all you've done for me. If it wasn't for you I'd probably …"

"You're doing well on your job?" Tom interrupted her feeling a bit uncomfortable with her expressions of gratefulness for after all he was her older brother and he should help provide for her. He had paid for her training as a bookkeeper because he wanted her to be something more than a servant or factory worker, he wanted her to have a chance to make something of herself.

She nodded her head. "So well I got a raise last month!"

Tom grinned as his arm around her should pulled her closer. "Now that's something good to hear."

"I love the work Tom. I know others might think it's boring but I really enjoy it."

xxxx

Tom was already awake and starting to dress when the small alarm clock sitting on the small nightstand separating the two beds rang. He wasn't sure if it was the excitement of starting his new job or the narrow single bed with its well-worn mattress that caused him to wake early. While it wasn't his childhood bedroom, all four of the Branson boys had bunked in the largest of the three bedrooms, the mattress felt like it was probably from his childhood days.

"What time is it?" a sleepy voice called out. Tom glanced over at the room's other bed and saw the form of his younger brother Brian buried underneath a blanket.

"It's almost seven" Tom answered.

He saw the figure move and stretch out before finally his brother's head popped up from under the covers. "Big day for you big brother" Brian said amiably to which Tom nodded while finishing buttoning his shirt.

Tom gathered up his shaving kit and made for the bedroom door.

"Despite anything I may have said last night I'm glad you're home and I do think your work at the paper is important. Ma and Oonagh have been talking about nothing else for weeks although" Brian paused and looked at the framed photograph of Sybil dressed in her nurse's uniform Tom had set on the nightstand. "Most of that talk has centered on Sybil" he finally continued while his eyes were still looking at her photograph.

"She really wants to get a job nursing here?"

"Aye. She did it during the war."

"It's a war zone here." Brian's words were said matter of factly. He looked up at his brother "I just hope neither of you get caught in the crossfire."

Anger flared up in Tom as he glared at his brother. "I …" Tom started then stopped. He didn't want to fight at least not now. He turned and opened the bedroom door.

"Tom" Brian called out as he rose from his bed and walked towards his bother. "I didn't mean that against you or her." He reached out and patted his brother's arm. "I just meant that you'll have to be careful ... there's a lot of anger and resentment and some are going to hate her just for being English and they'll not give her a chance nor for that matter will they think much of you for consorting with her."

His brother's words were hard for Tom to hear and even worse he feared Brian might be right. Tom focused on the photograph of Sybil. Kind, caring wonderful Sybil who believed in Irish independence as much as him. If only people would focus on that rather than her accent. He looked directly into his brother's eyes. "Will you give her a chance?"

"I don't have to big bother I already know I'll like her. I see the way your eyes light up when you talk about her."

"And Tom" Brian grinned "if you can persuade a beautiful rich English aristo to marry a poor Irish lad like yourself I can't wait to read your articles!"

xxxxx

Tom stood as he had almost 24 hours ago in the doorway of the small kitchen watching his mother as she deftly prepared breakfast. Dressed in a plain dark blue cotton dress most of which was covered with a flowered apron and her blondish hair pulled back into a low loose bun she looked as he always remembered her although there may have been a bit of gray hair that wasn't there before.

"It smells good Ma" he said.

"Probably not what you're used to these days" she responded as she placed plates of fried bacon and eggs on the table alongside a loaf of freshly baked brown bread the aroma of which perfumed the air as it had through so much of his childhood.

"Actually breakfast was the worst meal of the day at Downton" he chuckled remembering that breakfast was usually oatmeal or porridge with toast and tea. The only luxury being fresh fruit in season like strawberries or blueberries to put on their oatmeal or porridge.

"Surely that's not what she ate" his mother remarked when he told her of his usual breakfast fare.

Tom put down his fork and took her mother's hand. "Ma Sybil knows things will be different here but that's what she wants. She doesn't want the life she had before the war."

Claire Branson looked into her son's blue eyes so full of love and hope and wished she was as confident as her son. Oh Lord she silently prayed don't let him be disappointed.

xxxx

While Cora seemed to be on the road to recovery, she was now alert although still weak and confined to her bed, Sybil was worsening. At first the worry was just over the nasty hit on her head she had sustained when she fainted. Mary, who was so often considered cold and uncaring, took one look at the blood pouring from Sybil's head wound and screamed for help as she quickly knelt beside the unconscious Sybil and tried to stem the flow of blood with the hem of her own skirt. When the young housemaid had appeared, Mary ordered her to find someone to carry Sybil to her bed as well as to immediately fetch Dr. Clarkson.

As she later told Dr. Clarkson, Mary wasn't sure if Sybil had just tripped and fell or if she had actually fainted. "I think she might have talked about how tired she was" Mary started explaining to the doctor as he stitched the gash on Sybil's head which required seven stitches.

"And then of course there's all the-" Mary had started to talk about the drama with Branson but stopped herself just in time. She wasn't sure how far the news about her sister and Branson had spread and now that it seemed Sybil had come to her senses, at least regarding Branson since she hadn't left with him, Mary didn't want any further gossip. In fact that's why Mary had the footman take Sybil to a guest bedroom rather than her own.

Her first concern had rightly been the gushing wound on her beloved sister's head; however, Mary's wits had recovered enough that when one of the footmen arrived to move Sybil, she directed Sybil be moved to a guest bedroom where there would be no bags or trunks with Sybil's belongings filling the floor. Mary didn't want Dr. Clarkson or a nurse or any other staff wondering why it looked as if Sybil was moving out.

For the next three days, Sybil slept most of the time watched over by a private nurse her father hired although Mary remained sitting by her sister's bedside much of the time. When Sybil was awake she was groggy, sometimes sick to her stomach, and seemingly unaware of her surroundings. There were periods when she laid with her head on the pillows, her eyes closed and mumbling unintelligibly. A few times when she was awake and appeared a bit more alert she talked about how her head hurt. _It's from the blow to her head_ Dr. Clarkson had said. He noted she was probably also exhausted from tirelessly nursing the others in the household with the Spanish Flu.

"I have such a headache" Sybil finally blurted out one afternoon causing Mary who was drifting off to sleep in the chair beside Sybil's bed to sit up.

Smiling she grabbed one of Sybil's hands with both of hers. "Oh darling it's wonderful to hear you talking."

Frowning, or at least as much of a frown as she could muster with a gauze dressing wrapped tightly around the top of her head covering much of her forehead, Sybil stared in disbelief at her sister. "It's wonderful I have a headache?"

"Of course not darling it's just that-" Mary hesitated, took a deep breath then continued "you've spent most of the past few days-"

Sybil leaned forward as if she contemplated getting out of bed before falling back onto the stack of plumped pillows.

"Why don't you try eating some of this delicious broth" Mary lifted a bowl from the nightstand beside the bed. "It will help you get your strength back" she continued as she gave a spoonful to Sybil.

Mary was happy to see Sybil down about a third of the bowl of broth before she shook her head at the spoonful of broth Mary was holding signaling she was finished. It was the most she had eaten in days.

"Mama's been eating it now too and she's doing so much better."

Sybil's eyes widen and she creased her forehead as if in deep concentration. "Mama's been sick?"

Mary tried to conceal the alarm she felt at Sybil's question. "She had the Spanish flu but you …" Mary paused wondering what she should say "you fell in the corridor and hit your head on a table. Dr. Clarkson had to put in seven stitches."

Sybil, her head propped up on a stack of pillows, immediately lifted her arm and felt around her face before discovering the gauze dressing that was wrapped around her head. "I don't remember falling" her voice sounding so weak as she lightly fingered the bandage.

She looked questioningly at her sister "seven stitches?"

Mary nodded her head. "Just there" she said as she cautiously touched the left side of Sybil's head. "I'm afraid he had to shave a bit of your hair but I'm sure Anna can hide that somehow."

"Well I don't think I'll be venturing out soon anyway" Sybil mustered a small smile.

Her words caught Mary off guard and she narrowed her eyes as she looked directly at Sybil's face but Sybil had leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

"I'm just so tired" Sybil, sounding completely exhausted, whispered.

"That's why you're in bed darling" Mary replied. "You get all the rest you need."

For the next week Sybil appeared to be gaining strength physically at least while mentally she still seemed a bit shaky. She was awake more often and began eating plain toast along with her broth which she was now able to feed herself. Both her sisters sat by her bedside for long stretches at a time and even her father made brief appearances.

But then late one evening she started having chills and quickly became sick on her stomach. It was only a matter of time before, Dr. Clarkson confirmed Lady Sybil had also succumbed to the Spanish flu and it seemed to be progressing into a rather bad case of it and things weren't being helped with the nasty hit on her head she had sustained.

As O'brien had faithfully attended Cora now Mary did for Sybil. Although a full time nurse from York had been engaged just for Sybil, Mary sat beside her youngest sister's bedside, holding her hand and wiping her brow with clean cold towels. She had to be coaxed into leaving her beloved sister's bedside for meals and rest lest she also become a victim of this horrible disease.

xxxxx

It had been a long day and Tom was tired and hungry so he was quite happy to be hit with an appetizing aroma as soon as he opened the front door of his mother's house. The smells as well as the faint voices coming from the kitchen signaled dinner was probably ready which pleased his grumbling stomach. As he removed his hat he noticed two large battered suitcases sitting on the floor straddling the opening from the hallway into the parlor. Curious, he left his hat atop his leather bag on the sofa in the front parlor and headed for the kitchen where he found his mother, Oonagh and a vaguely familiar looking young woman sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea.

"Tom" his mother spoke as entered the room. "Surely you remember Bronagh Curran."

The young woman in questioned looked up at him and smiled. "It's been a long time Tom."

It had been a long time Tom thought. His mother and Bronagh's were best friends growing up next door to each other and had remained lifelong friends until Muireann's death a few years ago.

Although Bronagh remained seated, Tom leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Of course I remember you. Some of my best childhood memories are of visits to your family's farm."

Claire Branson chuckled as she tilted her head upward, rolled her eyes and made the sign of the cross. "Some of my worst memories of my children's childhoods are those visits."

Both Tom and Bronagh joined her in laughing. "Come on Ma what city child doesn't dream of running through fields or climbing trees or swimming in a pond."

"I seem to recall muddy kids, plenty of cuts and bruises, a few broken bones, almost drownings, disappearing-"

"I think you're just not seeing the fun of it all" Tom interrupted his mother.

A pot over boiling on the stove prevented Claire from retorting. "Supper's almost ready" she said as she hurried to the stove. "Go ahead Tom and wash up."

It was probably the most enjoyable dinner he had had since coming home with a lively conversation flowing freely among them. Bronagh was just a year younger than Tom and he had always found her easy to talk to. She had been that most rare combination of a bit of a tomboy, not surprising since she had five brothers, and a bookworm. The two of them had often escaped the other children to sit and talk about the books they had read. And just as she had then, Bronagh still displayed a sharp wit, a ready laugh, and an interest in a world beyond the boundaries of her neighborhood.

It seemed they talked about almost everything under the sun except for the reason Bronagh was here and it was only when she finally stood up to get the cake she had brought for dessert that Tom had an inkling of why.


	11. Chapter 11

"He was handsome. He was charming." Bronagh, her voice was barely above a whisper, as she sat on the edge of one of the single beds in the room she'd share with Oonagh. "And I was a fool."

Tom had set Bronagh's two suitcases on the other bed. He hadn't asked her or made any comments about her obvious condition. Now looking at Bronagh he gave a slight shake of his head and offered her a small smile. "I find it hard to believe you were a fool."

Bronagh flinched. "Well look at me" her voice now clear and strong as her hand absently rubbed her belly.

"It doesn't mean you were a fool Bronagh." Tom sat down on the bed next to her.

Bronagh shook her head. "I didn't see him for what he really was. When I told him about the baby he …" she paused and Tom thought she was going to burst into tears.

"You're not a fool for loving someone" Tom stated "even when it is someone not deserving of your love."

Bronagh lifted her head, giving Tom a wan smile.

Tom gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "I'd say he was the fool."

Bronagh closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as she ran her hand across her forehead. When she opened her eyes again, she no longer had that defeated look in them. "You're the first person to … to …"

"We can't help who we fall in love with Bronagh. Sometimes our heart wins out over our brain."

She unexpectedly stood up and walked across the small room. Turning back to Tom she said "When I couldn't hide it any longer I lost my job at the book shop and Mrs. Sullivan threw me out of her rooming house. I went to Caleb but he said I couldn't come back to the farm."

She took another deep breath as she looked up at the ceiling. "He said I had embarrassed the family."

Tom couldn't help but inject "As if Caleb is some saint."

Even though he hadn't seen Bronagh's brother in years Tom remembered her eldest brother as not only a boozer but a womanizer. There had been rumors that he was really the father of Aileen O'Keely's baby even though she was married to someone else. And if Tom remembered correctly, Caleb's wife had a baby not quite seven months after they married.

"It was out of desperation that I turned to your mother. I know I've disappointed her but at least she was kind enough to offer to let me stay here."

Bronagh stopped her pacing and sat back down on the bed. "I've written to my uncle in New York. I'm hoping I can go there. He owns a stationery store and I could work there after the baby comes."

"Can you travel to New York now? I mean before the baby comes?"

Bronagh emitted a small laugh as she shook her head. "Your mother's already lectured me on that. But I think it depends on how soon I hear from Uncle Carrick."

"I'd listen to her. You can't take any chances with either your health or the baby's."

Tom stood up. "I guess I should let you unpack."

As he walked out of the room, Bronagh called out after him. "Tom." He turned around and looked at her. "Thanks for listening."

xxxxxx

Tom had now been on his new job for almost two months and he found it an exhilarating time to be back in Ireland. He had missed the elections that had been held last December and the first meeting in January when the winners of that election formed the Dail Eireann and declared independence from Britain. Now with the Dail having met for a second time in April, Sinn Fein proposing challenging the right of any foreign government to make laws for Ireland, it seemed like the political movement for Irish independence was really heating up.

Just like his job as chauffeur Tom didn't have regular hours. There were days he spent writing in the office but just as likely he could spend his time attending meetings of various groups or interviewing political figures or anyone that Tom or his editor thought would be important for a story. It was an eye opening time for Tom because he learned firsthand that not everyone was interested in peaceful means for independence. But even more disconcerting to Tom was that not everyone envisioned the same type of independent Irish government.

Without Sybil to talk to, Tom found himself turning to Bronagh. He ran ideas by her and she read all of his articles before he submitted them to his editor. Her politics pretty much matched his and he valued the insight and knowledge she offered. She sometimes reminded him that his years away from Ireland gave him a more idealistic view than many of those who had continued to live here and had experienced firsthand the Easter Rebellion and its aftermath.

Although these weeks had been so busy for Tom adjusting to his new work and just being back in Ireland he was surprised how much he thought of Sybil. He often found himself like now sitting at his desk with his thoughts drifting to her rather than concentrating on his work. He had faithfully written to her but had heard nothing in reply to his letters. Surely by now her mother must have improved or, if the unthinkable had happened, was she too consumed by grief to contact him?

"Isn't someone going to answer that telephone?" The booming voice of his boss echoed around the room as he marched out of his office and into the "pit" as he called the room where his four journalists worked. Although it wasn't Tom that finally answered the ringing telephone, the bellowing of his boss jarred Tom from his thoughts and as he watched his coworker talking on the telephone it suddenly dawned on him. Telephone … Downton has a telephone. He had sent his mother the number in case of an emergency if she needed to talk to him immediately rather than send a telegram. Of course his mother didn't have a telephone but the post office had telephones that were for public use for a fee of course.

xxxxx

"Oh you're finally back" Mary was descending the stairs when she saw her father walk across the grand salon.

Robert stopped and looked up at his daughter. "It was a ghastly meeting that went way far too long. I've told Carson to bring me something to eat to the library."

Reaching her father, Mary linked her arm around her his. "I need to speak to you."

Robert paled at Mary's words as his thoughts immediately went to Sybil. "Is it …"

Realizing her father's fear, Mary shook her head. "No … no … Sybil's … no it's..." she stopped as she looked around to make sure no one else could hear them. "Let's wait until we're settled in the library."

xxxx

Robert was standing in the library in front of one of the room's large windows. He took another sip of his whiskey as he stared out at the expanse of lawn that stretched towards the cloudless blue sky, his thoughts not on the view before him but rather on that bloody chauffeur. It was in this very room on a day much like today that he had first met the man. That day he had been flattered at the lad's open admiration of his library and amused at his interest in history and politics. Robert now winced at those thoughts. Oh how much he now rued the day he had ever hired the man.

He had thought Sybil had come to her senses when she didn't leave with him. Then came the postcard and then the letters. He had thought, hoped, they were the signs of a jilted lover trying to win back Sybil. But now he frighteningly knew that wasn't the case at all.

 _She stayed because of Mama_ Mary told him.

He shouldn't have been surprised that after Lavinia's death Sybil wouldn't leave until her mother was out of danger and for that he felt a bit ashamed of himself.

 _I wasn't sure what to tell him._ Robert had always thought there was no situation Mary couldn't handle. She was always so sure of herself.

 _I finally told him Sybil was sick but I didn't tell him Sybil doesn't seem to remember._

Sybil doesn't remember. Robert took another sip of his drink. That he thought was the answer he had been searching for and how this whole horrible mess ends. Mary had been taken aback by his proposal but didn't totally dismiss it. As he continued to talk, he could tell she began to warm a bit to the idea and he was heartened when she told him she wanted to think about it.

Mary wanted some time on her own to think about her father's proposal. If she went through with it, if she did what he asked, it would … she closed her eyes.

Mary hesitated outside the closed bedroom door. She knew many thought she was cold and heartless but Sybil had been the one person that had never thought that. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Mary quietly opened the bedroom door. She looked at her sister who was sleeping peacefully.

She had been appalled when Sybil had told her about the chauffeur wanting her to run away with him. But she was convinced Sybil wasn't really interested in him, hadn't really taken him seriously, so she agreed not to tell their father as long as Sybil didn't do anything foolish. But then Sybil had been foolish.

She stood watching the gently rising and falling of her sleeping sister's chest. Her sister was beautiful and kind and caring and … now that the war was over things would return to normal, surely there would be _the season_ this year and hunts and balls and dinner parties. Sybil would have the chance to meet men of her own class.

Mary had organized the drive to catch the pair and abort their elopement but afterwards she hadn't told her father. She had kept quiet even then. She hadn't done anything and then came that shocking night. _What do you mean you knew? I hoped it would blow over. I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up._

Mary closed the bedroom door and slowly made her way down the corridor towards her own room.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Sorry for the long delay in updating this story but I kept changing my mind on what happens here. I kept going back and forth between two scenarios and finally after much thought decided to go with my original plan._

Mary crossed her arms pulling her thin cotton jumper a little tighter as if to ward off a sudden chill but on this late spring day the sun was high in the sky giving the air a warmth that promised summer was soon arriving. Indeed the chill that Mary felt came not from the air around her but from within.

Since she was a little girl, Mary had come to this bench, so close to the house yet hidden from view of it by the giant Lebanon Cedar, to think, to read, to be alone. She had always loved the view from here of the gently rolling fields separated by low stone walls that eventually merged in the far distance into wooded hills. It was the spot closest to the house that gave one a sense of the enormity of the estate.

Yet today Mary wasn't here to admire the view or even think about the estate. She had come here because she couldn't yet face her sister although why she now had such a sense of unease or misgiving she wasn't sure. It wasn't like she had made her decision quickly without forethought. It wasn't just what Papa had said that persuaded her. No, she truly thought it was in Sybil's best interest.

Since the day she was born, Sybil had had a special place in Mary's heart. Sybil was the one who exhibited so many of the traits Mary sometimes wished she had. Yet Mary knew that behind Sybil's kindness and gentleness was a backbone of steel. Like her sisters, Sybil could be sly and devious, wasn't the romance with the chauffeur evidence of that? Yet Sybil's deviousness was different from that employed by Edith or herself. There was no cruelty, no desire to hurt others only Sybil's desire to have her own way whether it was as a child to climb a tree or to become a nurse or to, Mary closed her eyes, to fall in love with who she wanted.

Mary pulled her jumper even tighter as with that thought she sensed a black cloud pass overhead. Maybe the source of her unease or apprehension was that if Sybil ever found out the truth Mary feared Sybil would never forgive her and Mary wasn't sure she could live with the repercussions that would bring.

* * *

It had been over a week, 11 days actually Tom would say without hesitation, since Tom had telephoned Downton and received word of Sybil's illness. His concern for Sybil's health was tempered with the relief that she hadn't changed her mind about him. But the thoughts of such relief quickly dissipated. Although he of course feared the worst, how could he not after Miss Squire, Tom was convinced that Sybil would pull through unscathed.

Tom had finished his story early and after turning it in to his editor decided to take a walk around the city he loved. During his years at Downton he had come to appreciate the countryside a type of territory he had little familiarity with. While his father was alive there had been the annual family day trip to the sea which was an event that young Tom Branson eagerly looked forward to and in fact on the trip home was always planning what he wanted to do on next year's visit. There were also the childhood summer trips to Bronagh's family's farm a place that had been magical to a city child like Tom.

But Downton was far cry from the Irish seaside or the lowly Curran farm. It might have been surprising to his fellow servants or even Sybil but what had fascinated Tom was not the palatial house, which represented to him all that was wrong with the social system, but rather the surrounding grounds. He loved that on his half days off he could choose to spend his time surrounded by deep woods or lying in an open meadow of wildflowers or sitting on a fallen log overhanging a pond or lake. He could admire views that stretched for miles from the peaks of hills or sit in gardens alive with the sweet scents of lavender and roses. Away from the bright lights of the city, the moon had appeared larger and at times closer than he had ever seen. And the stars! Never had he seen so many stars.

The paper's office was located in a somewhat dilapidated building on a side street and it took Tom ten minutes to walk to O'Connell Street the main thorough fare of the city. Although it was officially named Sackville Street after the Englishman the 1st Duke of Dorset and Lieutenant of Ireland, Tom, like most Dubliners, preferred to use the name O'Connell after Daniel O'Connell an Irish nationalist of the early 1800s. Another five minutes brought him to the River Liffey where he stopped on the bridge and leaned back against the stone railing.

As much as he had come to love what the Yorkshire countryside offered, he always yearned for the hustle and bustle of Dublin and nowhere was this hustle and bustle exhibited more than this spot. He thought how much he longed to bring Sybil here not just to this spot but to the city. He wanted to show her the buildings whose architecture rivaled those of London. He wanted to take her to a play at the Abbey Theatre a leading center for Irish playwrights. He wanted them to take long walks on narrow side streets stopping at book shops that caught their fancy. He wanted them to while away an hour or so at a pub listening to the pipes and fiddles and bodhrans of traditional Irish musicians. He wanted them to picnic in St. Stephen's Green. He longed to show Sybil Trinity College a place where maybe one day their son or daughter would attend.

He turned to face the river and watched a barge slowly wind its way down river. And when they've had their fill of the city, when they longed for a quieter day, they'd go to the seaside or maybe to the Wicklow Mountains. But wherever they went, they'd be free to hold hands or walk with his arm around her waist. They'd be free to be together at last.

* * *

Even though only a portion of the back side of the envelope was visible, the light yellow colored envelope stood out from the other plain white envelopes that the post man had pushed through the mail slot and which now laid scattered on the floor of the entry way. Just looking at it, Claire Branson instantly knew it was news from Downton _._ Who else would send them a telegram?

She picked up all the envelopes but it was the yellow colored one that she stared at. She clutched the envelope close to her chest and closed her eyes, silently saying a small prayer, for she knew that whatever news was contained inside this envelope would forever change her son's life for better or worse.

Claire sighed deeply and then slowly walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She set the mail on the kitchen table with the telegram on top of the pile.

"Oh the post has come" Bronagh stated when she turned from the stove and looked at the table. She looked hopefully at the woman she thought of as Aunt Claire. "Is there anything for me?"

Slowly Claire shook her head "I'm afraid not my dear." Then seeing the dejected look on the young woman's face she added "It does take quite a while for letters from America."

Looking at the young woman who Claire had known since she was born she was suddenly struck with the thought of why couldn't Tom had fallen in love with someone like Bronagh. Bronagh was kind and intelligent and all those things he claimed Lady Sybil possessed. But Bronagh was one of them and with someone like her there would be no period of adjustment.

Claire blinked back tears. What if Lady Sybil couldn't adjust?

* * *

After what Mary considered a grueling few days of travel they were almost, finally, at their destination. Although Mary leaned back in her plush first class seat, her head resting on the seatback, Sybil was bent forward, her face almost pressed against the window. She had been like that for most of the past hour. With childlike wonder Sybil had been oohing and aahing the passing scenery.

"I never dreamed it would be this beautiful" Sybil gushed.

When the train pulled into the railway station Sybil looked across the first class compartment and smiled at her sister. "I think we're going to have a wonderful time here Mary" she exclaimed.

* * *

Claire was checking on the roast in the oven when she heard the front door open. She glanced at the clock thinking it was too early for either Tom or Oonagh. Brian's schedule was much more flexible but Brian usually called out the moment he opened the front door.

"Something smells really good ma" Tom stated as he stood in the kitchen doorway.

Claire set the lid back on the pan and closed the oven door. She took her time to wipe her hands on the dish cloth she had tucked into her waist band before turning to face her son.

"You're home very early today."

Tom smiled. "I finished my article way before its deadline so thought I'd take advantage of the beautiful day. Maybe do a little woodworking before dinner." He had started working on a small table for his and Sybil's flat. Not that they had a flat yet for that was something he thought the two of them should choose but he could in the meantime work on some furniture.

"Sit down and I'll fix you a cup of tea first."

Claire glanced at the table and Tom's eyes followed although he didn't seem to realize what the top envelope was. She finally picked up the envelope and held it out to him. "I found this with the rest of the post when I came home after my women's meeting at the church."

Tom gingerly took hold of the envelope. Like his mother he instantly knew it was from Downton. Claire was surprised he didn't immediately tear it open; instead he stood there looking at it apprehensively.

It was another moment or two before he finally opened it. Instead of saying a word he just stood there silently staring at the telegram.

"Tom" his mother called softly. "Tom?"

But he made no sound, no movement.

Finally shaking his head he dropped the telegram as if it was a hot coal. As it fluttered to the floor, Tom looked up but his eyes seemed focused on the wall behind his mother.

"Tom!"

Without a word he turned and walked unsteadily towards the door leading into the back garden. His shoulder slammed into the door frame and Claire could hear him stumble down the back steps.

She raced over and picked up the telegram from where it had fallen on the floor. Her eyes immediately honed in on the word DIED.

 _A/N: Any reviews would be appreciated. Just remember there is quite a ways to go for this story so I hope you'll stay with it._


	13. Chapter 13

Mary, sitting on one of the room's two forest green velvet sofas which so perfectly matched the silk drapes covering the wide windows that looked out towards the lake, sighed heavily in boredom and casually tossed her magazine across the room. The sitting room was elegant with enough gilt and crystal and silks to be in any grand English country estate she thought as she glanced around the room which had become far too familiar. And that is the problem she thought … it wasn't in a grand English country estate but rather in a hotel in the Swiss Alps.

It wasn't that the hotel didn't meet Mary's exacting standards for she couldn't complain about the impeccable service. Even Carson, Mary mused, would have to concede that from the lowly doorman to the waiters to the maids to the spa attendants to the front desk staff all performed their duties competently and unobtrusively. Nor could she complain about the hotel itself which was billed as the grandest in the Swiss Alps. With her very limited knowledge of hotels, well to be truthful non-existent first hand knowledge, she had no way of knowing whether this was true but the hotel was beautiful both inside and out. The grandiose six story building would fit right in with the elegant Georgian buildings of Mayfair or Eaton Square since it was built in the style of The Ritz and Browns and not the Alpine chalet style with plenty of decorative wood that one might expect of a hotel in Interlaken.

It was only when one looked outside of the hotel with the majestic peaks of the Jungrau, Eiger and Monch looming nearby silently speaking that one wasn't in London or England anymore. From their suite on the top floor, Mary and Sybil had views not only of the mountains but also of the two lakes that gave the town its name Interlaken.

The first few weeks had slowly passed as Mary tried to occupy her time while Sybil spent so much of her time sleeping or resting. While Mary went horseback riding, Sybil was content to sit on the balcony of their suite reading a book or staring out at the breathtaking scenery all around them. Then slowly Sybil became more active venturing to stroll on the hotel grounds and then short walks around town. As her strength returned they became more adventurous and the time began to fly by with plenty to occupy their time, exploring the quaint town, boat rides on the lakes, horseback riding, taking advantage of the many services offered by the hotel's spa. At Sybil's insistence they had taken a (in Mary's mind) harrowing funicular ride up the mountain but Mary had to admit the views of the sweeping mountains were absolutely breathtaking. To ensure Sybil was not overtaxing herself Mary made sure they took plenty of leisure time too, lingering over lunch on the terrace, enjoying tea in the garden. But now … Mary sighed once again …

The door to the sitting room flung open and Sybil marched in, a beaming smile lighting up her face. "Oh Mary you're here" Sybil called out as if surprised to see her sister lounging on the sofa. "I thought you'd be riding this morning."

Mary couldn't help but smile, her boredom completely forgotten as she looked at her beloved sister, marveling at how much good this trip had been for Sybil. When they had first arrived Sybil looked so frail and pale and although she tried to hide it tired easily. Their walks were with interspersed with countless stops to, as Sybil would say, admire the view. Yet Mary knew it was just as much to rest as to take in the scenery. Also during those first weeks Sybil would take an afternoon nap which in some way amused Mary for Sybil had been the child that had very physically and vocally resisted nap time.

Now as Mary looked at Sybil she saw a healthy and radiant young woman with all traces of that Spanish flu as well as that horrible war gone. For in their time here, Mary had come to realize how much of a toll that war had also taken on Sybil both mentally and physically.

Before Mary responded, Sybil plopped down on the sofa beside Mary and gaily continued. "But I'm glad you're here. I have a surprise for lunch."

The surprise turned out to be a picnic lunch on the shore of one of the lakes. It was a very scenic spot with the lake a stunning blue green the color made more vibrant by the backdrop of the greenery close to the opposite shore and the dark gray stone mountains that rose seeming out of the water and whose peaks were still snow covered. The sun was shining brightly in an almost cloudless sky giving the air a welcomed warmth.

"Well this was a very nice surprise." Mary looked at the remains of their picnic lunch. She looked up at Sybil, a devious smile on her lips, "and so nice not to worry about that dreadful woman and her meek little husband invading our table again."

The tourist trade which this area depended on had been severely interrupted by the war and was very slow in resuming. Their hotel was probably only half full making it almost impossible to avoid the other guests in the dining room unless one took their meals in their room. This week had brought a new guest, Mrs. Harrington of Boston, Massachusetts, _yes those Harringtons she would say as if everyone should know,_ a most disagreeable sort who had no shortage of complaints about the hotel, the food, the weather, the service, which she loudly vocalized. With her coarse manner and her flamboyant dress, Mary was reminded of her Grandmama.

Sybil shook her head as she chuckled at Mary's remark. Then looking up at the mountains and down to the lake replied "Forget the hotel or the food, how could anyone not appreciate this stunning scenery?"

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Some people just aren't as open minded as us!"

At her words, Sybil emitted a belly laugh. A deep roar that Mary found so delightful and although her laugh would never be quite so deep she joined her sister in laughing.

Wiping the tears in her eyes caused by laughing so hard, Sybil noticed the remains of their lunch. Grabbing pieces of bread, Sybil jumped up. "Come on" she said as she reached out her hand to help Mary stand up.

Standing by the water's edge, Sybil began pulling small pieces of bread and throwing them at the ducks lazily swimming nearby. The two sisters stood in companionable silence as the ducks squawked and flapped their wings vying for the bits of bread.

"Remember when we did this as little girls Mary?" The grounds of Downton contained a couple of lakes and while they weren't as magnificent as this lake had provided hours of entertainment for the young Crawley girls.

"I remember the time that duck chased Edith" Mary emitted a light laugh.

"Oh Mary" Sybil started to admonish her older sister but as the picture of that scene filled her head she had to admit it had been funny.

Mary began to giggle. "And that time you and Edith were sitting on that log jutting out into the water and the ducks started pecking at the two of you and Edith fell into the water. Now that was …"

* * *

After receiving the telegram from his Lordship informing him of Sybil's death, Tom had retreated into himself. He sat with his eyes seemingly focused on some distant spot. There were no tears, no utterances, just sitting as still as if he were paralyzed staring out into space.

Claire Branson was afraid that in his grief Tom was mentally slipping away from this world. She, as well as his sisters and Bronagh, would sit beside him sometimes talking to him in hushed tones, other times just holding his hand or rubbing his back but Tom gave no indication he was aware of their presence. Even his younger brother Brian would sit beside Tom talking about their childhood, laughing as he retold some of their misadventures, but even these stories elicited no reaction from his older brother.

It was only when he took small sips of strong hot tea or dainty bites of food that Claire was comforted by the thought that somewhere in her son there was a part willing him to live.

Days later when the tears finally came, it was in anguished wails that tore at the hearts of everyone in the house. He called her name over and over. Sometimes it was a scream. _Sybil._ Sometimes it was a whimper. _Sybil._ Sometimes he muttered incoherently until his voice was hoarse.

When he finally emerged from that total state of grief, he was a pale imitation of the man he had been. The physical was easy to see, the paleness of his skin, the listless eyes, the loss of weight. But such physical things can be somewhat easily reversed or corrected. Much more worrying was the mental.

Although Tom had been absent for a couple of weeks, the newspaper editor was reluctantly willing to give Tom another chance when he appeared unannounced at the newspaper office. During these times in Dublin there were few who hadn't been hit with the loss of someone so the editor was not cold hearted yet he couldn't fathom the depth of Tom's grief.

Grief takes many forms. Tom's family thought he had been through the worst of it. Surely work would channel his energies, consume his time and give him something else to think about was the prevailing sense in the Branson household. And for a few days this proved true for Tom.

Tom had never been much of a drinker even in his youth. Sure there had been nights of too much indulgence in the pub but Tom was too serious about his life to let drink become anything more than an occasional pleasure. It began when he joined his office mates at the closest pub to celebrate the anniversary of the newspaper. Tom didn't feel like celebrating, his grief was still too palpable to enjoy anything, but he had been coaxed into going for just one pint. As he took his first sips of his ale, Tom felt an unexpected sense of comfort. He returned to the pub the next night and the night after and the night after that and soon he couldn't wait until the end of the day to seek the relief that he found as he drained ever more pints.

Pints of ale at the pub soon turned into sips of whiskey taken from a bottle hidden in his desk when he thought no one in the office noticed. But as the sips turned into gulps, his speech became slurred by the afternoon, what writing he managed became incoherent and only a month after returning to the office Tom was sacked.

* * *

Sybil had found many delightful spots in the hotel and its grounds. There were several gardens on the hotel grounds that were ideal for walking but her favorite garden spot was in the far back garden were a black wrought iron bench, practically hidden in an alcove formed by a cascading wall of deep purple aubrieta over a tall stone fence, was an ideal place to sit and read. The covered terrace with its comfy lounge chairs offered a perfect spot to drink tea or eat a light lunch while reading or admiring the stunning views of the mountains sheltered from the bright sun or the occasional rain. The indoor pool (something Sybil had never seen before) provided not only the luxury of swimming in warm water but the floor to glass walls allowed wonderful views while one floated lazily in the refreshing water.

Without a doubt though, Sybil's very favorite place was the balcony of their suite. With their suite situated on the top floor, the balcony wrapped around the corner thereby allowing broad views of the town, the lakes and mountains and afforded one a view of both the sunrise and the sun set.

As she did most mornings Sybil was sitting on the balcony of their suite, sipping tea and admiring the stunning view. Although the morning sun was shining brightly, she was still in her nightgown and silk robe with her long hair in a braid hanging down her back. It might be a rather lazy morning but Sybil had come out onto the balcony when the air was still and quiet and the sky was turning from inky black to dusty gray with streaks of apricot and pink just emerging over the high eastern mountain peaks. She watched as the streaks of apricot and pinks faded as the sun finally broke over the mountain, its bright rays glistening like diamonds on the top of the snow-capped mountains.

When Mary finally appeared, trailed by a waiter pushing the trolley loaded with their breakfast trays and a pot of tea, the sun hung like a ball in the light blue sky and the stillness had been broken by the sounds of birds tweeting and the faint chatter of people from somewhere far below the balcony.

Sybil loved the informality of eating breakfast on the balcony while still wearing her nightclothes. She had even talked Mary into some dinners in this same fashion whether here on the balcony or sitting on the sofas of their sitting room.

Now sitting once again alone on the balcony for Mary had left for her usual morning horseback ride, the breakfast trays taken away and replaced by a fresh pot of tea, Sybil sat back in her chair with her feet propped up on the coffee table. She smiled as she pulled on the belt of her robe thinking of Mary. _Sybil don't you think you're taking this informality a bit too far_.

It had been three months since Mary and Sybil had set off on this adventure and Sybil was finally getting restless. Yet she couldn't exactly say why, maybe it was a holiday that had gone on far too long or maybe it was the purposeless idleness. She remembered how she enjoyed nursing and the feeling for the first time in her life of being useful. Yet there was something else that seemed to be floating in the far reaches of her brain not quite making it into her consciousness. That feeling had begun two days ago when she was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the hotel's wide front porch waiting for Mary. A motor car had pulled in front of the entrance and as Sybil watched the hotel valet unload the numerous suitcases she had a fleeting sense of … well she wasn't quite sure what it was.

* * *

For over a week, Tom hid the inglorious end of his journalism career from his family. Bleary eyed and still smelling of the previous evening's drinking, he'd rise and dress and leave ostensibly for the newspaper office. It was Bronagh who first saw through this ruse. To confirm her suspicions, she followed him as he left the house one morning and watched him as he made his way not to the center of Dublin and the newspaper office but to the nearest park.

Staying out of his sight, she watched as he sat on a bench, the fine leather bag that Sybil had given him sitting next to him. Bronagh recalled how vibrant Tom had been when he told her of Sybil's gift.

" _You're a professional journalist now Tom and every journalist should have a bag like this."_

 _He ran his hand across the gold lettering T Branson embossed on the camel colored soft leather. It was without doubt the finest piece of leather work he had ever owned_.

" _I was going to surprise you with this on your first day of work."_

Fearing what that bag now contained, Bronagh wondered how long it would be before Tom opened the bag and began drinking. But to her relief he made no move to do so instead sitting there staring ahead.

Other than a slight flinch when she sat down on the other end of the bench Tom gave no indication he was aware of her presence. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Bronagh worked through her mind what she was going to say.

Without ever looking in her direction, she was surprised it was Tom that broke the silence. "I won't always be a chauffeur. I'll make something of myself."

His lower lip quivered. "She wouldn't be so proud of me now."

"No she wouldn't."

Tom snapped his head around to look at Bronagh, his brow raised in surprise.

"She believed in you Tom."

He closed his eyes as the first tear glistened his cheek.

* * *

Sybil woke with a start as if someone had shaken her. Her breathing heavy, she looked around the room faintly lit by the moonlight that floated in through the open curtains, a frown forming on her face as tried but failed to remember what the dream had been about. Feeling that sleep wouldn't come back, Sybil rose from her bed and wrapping her silk robe around her she quietly ambled out into the sitting room and then onto the balcony.

After such a warm day the air was now crisp and cool causing Sybil to pull her robe tighter and cross her arms across her chest. The three quarter moon seemed almost directly above her and it cast a silvery glow on the balcony and the gardens below. Facing the moon, encased in its glow, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, a smile breaking across her face as the words of a favorite childhood poem unexpectedly floated into her head.

 _The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse_

 _The howling dog by the door of the house_

 _The bat that lies in bed at noon_

 _All love to be out by the light of the moon_

Opening her eyes once again she glanced at the grounds below where nothing moved and chuckled as she thought there is no squalling cat or howling dog. In fact there were no sounds at all, not even from the Aare River which ran through the town and now seemed to be sleeping like the town's inhabitants.

Pulling one of the lounge chairs closer to the railing so that she would be bathed in the moonlight, Sybil sat most unlady-like with her legs tucked under her body. She marveled at how the moonlight barely touched the nearest shore of the lake and failed to reach the mountains at all. It was as if a black curtain had been hung shielding most of the lake and all of the mountains from the moon.

"Sybil?" Even though it was said quietly, the sound of Mary's voice shattered the stillness of the night.

Her hand gently rubbed Sybil's shoulder. "Is something wrong? Are you alright?" Mary's voice was filled with such caring and compassion that would surprise most who knew her.

Sybil shook her head. "I had a dream and couldn't go back to sleep."

"Oh" a wary Mary replied as she was overcome by a bit of alarm. This trip hadn't been concocted by their father only to help Sybil regain her physical strength but also, and maybe even more importantly, in hopes that away from Downton her memories of the chauffeur would stay buried never to resurface. So far, Sybil had given no indication of anything different.

"I told you those chocolates just before bedtime weren't wise."

Sybil slightly shook her head as she chuckled. "But they are so good. I'll miss them when we go home."

Then looking up at Mary, her face giving no sign of what she was thinking, added "We are going to go home aren't we?"

"Of course my dear just as soon as you are well."

"Oh Mary" Sybil stood up. "I am well."

It was hard to argue with that Mary thought for Sybil was a picture of health with her rosy cheeks, glowing skin, and gleaming eyes and in this moonlight she looked stunningly beautiful.

"Well if you're really sure. Remember Dr. Clarkson said not to hurry, to take full advantage of the clear mountain air."

"I'm sure Mary. I want to go home." But _I will miss this place_ Sybil thought. _I'll miss the beauty and serenity it offers._

 _A/N: The lines of the poem are from The Moon by Robert Louis Stevenson. Although I've always known the story line it's been hard getting it from my head to paper but I think my muse is finally back._


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews of the last chapter.

Once Sybil made up her mind about something there was little chance of changing her mind and often there was no chance of stopping her. Her stubbornness was a trait that many overlooked but one Mary was now being reminded of for Sybil was insistent that they go home.

"But why now all of a sudden?" Mary asked. Sybil had given no indication of remembering the chauffeur and Mary carefully studied Sybil for the slightest sign that her memories were resurfacing.

"Mary" Sybil sighed as if she shouldn't have to give a reason. "We've been here for three months. I'd say I've fully recovered."

Mary smiled and nodded for she agreed with that statement. The drawn, pale, weak Sybil that had left Downton was gone, replaced by the rosy cheeked glowing young woman now standing before her in the drawing room of their suite. Mary couldn't deny that the fresh mountain air, long walks, lazing in gardens, and hearty dining had done wonders for restoring Sybil's health.

"I'll make the arrangements then" Mary finally replied. "How about we leave on Friday?"

Sybil's broad grin and gleaming eyes attested to her happiness at hearing Mary's words. She leaned over and gently kissed her older sister's cheek. "Thanks Mary you're wonderful."

Something else that Mary should have remembered was that Sybil was very good at deception.

* * *

Life had made Claire Branson into a practical no-nonsense woman. As a child she may have had hopes and dreams of one day being a school teacher or working in a shop but the reality of the poverty in which she lived soon crushed any such notions. She had been lucky to marry a fine man whose thirst for learning matched hers. He had risen to be a foreman at the ironworks providing a good steady income but that was stretched with their ever growing family. Their dream of providing their children with better opportunities had evaporated with Joe's early death.

Her oldest son worked on his father-in-law's dairy farm. It was a hardscrabble life but at 29 and already of father of four he would be there forever as one day he'd inherit the farm. Yet he seemed happy and content and what more could a mother want? Her second son Cillian had always been a handful and his youthful scrapes with the law hadn't had a positive effect on him. He wasn't a mean sort, in fact he could be quite charming. He had drifted in and out of the family home and their life since he was 16 and she had last seen him two months ago when he appeared out of the blue with bags of food and some money that he left on the kitchen table when he disappeared again. Her oldest daughter, kind, sweet Aideen, had married at 19, become a mother at 20 and now had three children. With her husband mired in republican political activities, Claire feared it was only a matter of time before he was arrested, disappeared or turned up dead.

It was her three youngest children that Claire had hopes for and none more than Tom. It was his generosity, sending much of his pay home from England, that allowed Brian and Oonagh to stay in school. Now with Brian attending college (and working part time at the library) and Oonagh working as a bookkeeper it appeared that both were on their way to making something of their lives.

But Tom … Claire wanted to weep when she thought of him. She wasn't surprised that it had taken a long time for Tom to fall in love and when he had he'd done so it had been so deeply and whole-heartedly. Through the nurturing of his family and especially Bronagh, Tom had slowly emerged from the depths of his grief. She knew it would be time that would lessen his grief but that he would never fully recover.

Claire had seen too many, including two brothers, sink into alcoholism due to poverty and the cruelties of life and she was determined that wouldn't happen to Tom. With this in mind she cajoled her cousin who owned a garage into hiring Tom as a mechanic. She was sure that working again would get him back on his feet.

* * *

Sybil, wearing one of her silk dressing gowns, her freshly washed hair still wet, sat on the edge of her bed and looked around the sunny yellow room that had been her bedroom since she was twelve. Her homecoming had been rather surreal she thought. Her parents, Edith, and Granny had been genuinely happy to see her as she had been to see them yet as they sat in the library having tea she couldn't help feeling that everyone was playing a part. Maybe it was their intense gazes as they watched her or that Mama had made sure there was never a lull in the conversation but whatever it was Sybil felt something was a bit off. The conversation Sybil noted veered on the Alps and traveling, the resumption of dinner parties with all the _right_ people and the upcoming shooting season but of course nothing about the war or Lavinia or …

It was as if the war had never happened and life would go on as it had before the war. Yet it was this very notion that triggered thoughts that had been buried deep in Sybil's mind these past three months. As she listened to the plans of her family, the dinner parties they would have, the people they needed to see, Sybil knew this wasn't the life she wanted.

She had opened the armoire and had searched all the drawers of the matching dresser and chest not sure what it was she was actually searching for. Now as she sat on the bed and looked at the still open drawers she realized what it was that she didn't find … her nursing uniforms.

* * *

Tom sat back and savored the meat pie that his mother had packed in his lunch box. He had finally finished working on the gear box that had taken him all morning to do so. Looking over at the car, Tom smiled, feeling a sense of relief as well as accomplishment for it had been a bear of a job and he had certainly earned his lunch break today.

He looked around the yard at the other three motor cars still in need of service, his gaze stopping on the black model T thinking that he could easily finish that one in just an hour or two this afternoon. Although he had only been working at his uncle's garage for three weeks, it was generally recognized that Tom's mechanic skills were far superior to the other two men employed by his uncle. Whether or not he was as good as his uncle was a friendly bone of contention between uncle and nephew.

He was grateful his uncle had given him this chance even if he had sworn he was finished being a mechanic. It wasn't only that he needed the money but even more so he needed to occupy his time. Keeping busy kept him from thinking about the mess of his life and about … Tom closed his eyes but he quickly shook his head as if trying to drum out those thoughts.

It wasn't that he didn't want to think about her or that he wanted to forget her, no he never wanted to forget, but he couldn't let those thoughts intrude on his work. He wasn't going to lose this job and he wasn't going to retreat into drink. He wasn't going to let himself sink so low again. Sybil always had confidence in him, that he'd make something of his life and he wouldn't fail her again.

Taking another look around the yard, he finished the last of his tea. There was nothing wrong with being a mechanic, it was honest work and he had to admit he enjoyed solving those hard problems like with the gear box this morning. Maybe someday he'd even have his own garage. It wasn't the life he had envisioned but it might be the life he'd settle for.

* * *

Bit and pieces of the past had come back to Sybil while she and Mary were still in Interlaken but she knew she had to come back to Downton if she was going to connect all the jumbled pieces that floated in her mind. Now as she sat on her bed she came to the realization that her family didn't want her to remember.

What was her family so afraid of? It just couldn't be the war and her work as a nurse. It had to be …

In her dreams his face hadn't been in focus yet she recalled dark blond hair and blue eyes and of course there was the dark green uniform. Her heart had fluttered when she spotted the man in the dark green uniform at the Downton railway station but when he turned around she knew he wasn't the one that had recently begun haunting her dreams. She sensed Mary was carefully watching her but Sybil had become very good these past few weeks keeping her face a mask so as to hide what she was thinking

Glancing around her bedroom, her vision focused on the book sitting on her night stand. She idly opened it, sifting through the pages while a sharper image floated into her mind.

* * *

After dinner Tom retreated to his father's old workshop in the back garden. Puttering around in the workshop made him think of a happier time when his Da had still been around and young Tom had been his dutiful helper.

He loved that time spent with his Da not only for the skills he learned as he watched him work but it was the only one on one time Tom ever had with his father. His father loved poetry and often while he whittled on a project he'd recite verses sometimes in English but often in Gaelic. _It's a gift we Irish have with words_ his father would say.

Tom closed his eyes and in his mind he could see his father standing at this very work bench, a block of salvaged wood sitting on top of the workbench. _So Tommy me lad what shall we make of it? A pair of lovely birds? A treasure box for your mother? A …_ It wouldn't do to get maudlin, so Tom shook his head and the vision disappeared.

He had his own project to work on, an old cradle he found in the attic. He was sure his father had made it and probably he as well as each of his siblings had spent many a night rocked to sleep by its gentle swaying.

Bronagh was adamant that she'd leave for New York within a month or so of the baby's birth but the little one would need the cradle until making that voyage. It was a little something he could do to thank Bronagh for all she had done for him these past couple of months. If it wasn't for her, he'd probably still be drowning his sorrows in whiskey but she had listened to him, had held his hand, had seen him at his worst. Never once had she admonished him instead offering support and encouragement.

Tom set the oil stained cloth on the workbench. Now Bronagh was offering him a new chance, a new direction in life, in New York. He could start over there, helping out at her uncle's stationary store until he sorted out what he wanted to do. Maybe he could even find a newspaper job there.

It hadn't been a romantic proposal, there had been no talk of that sort of thing. Bronagh's uncle had become too frail to continue working and she was realistic enough to know she'd need help in running the business.

Tom looked at the cradle. He knew, as did Bronagh and his mother, that in New York Bronagh could pose as a recent widow so that her child wouldn't be tainted with her "sin". But maybe Tom could offer Bronagh something more, he could give the child his name.

* * *

Sybil waited until she was sure everyone would be in their rooms and then she quietly made her way down to the library. She switched on one of the small lamps which cast a warm glow on this half of the room while leaving the other half in semi-darkness. She loved this room which always seemed to her to be an inviting oasis with a warmth and comforting feel that much of the rest of the house lacked. From the time she could walk, Sybil would come here to look at the picture books or better yet hoping her father would have some time to read to her. The two of them had spent countless hours here with Sybil sitting on his lap as he read to her. As she grew older she'd still come here to read, often curled up in the lounge chair while her father worked at his desk.

This evening she had come here with a different purpose in mind. She pulled the heavy oversized book from its place on the shelf and carried it to the lounge chair. Sitting with the book on her lap, she lightly ran her hand across the cover of the unopened book. Finally she carefully opened it to where the thin braided cord acted as a bookmark. It wasn't this page she was interested in so she started flipping the pages one by one until she saw her name. And there just above her name was his _T Branson_.

Lightly tracing her finger across his name she smiled.

Then a minute or two later she once again began paging through the ledger, stopping to read certain entries, remembering certain books. Over and over again she looked at the pages with his name and the title of a book and one or two entries later her name and the title of the same book.

Finally she closed the ledger.

Her journey that night didn't end in the library for she had one more stop to make. While the ledger contained proof of their friendship, it wasn't where they had discussed those books, sometimes in agreement, sometimes not.

It wasn't where their friendship had blossomed.

It was a walk she knew she had done so many nights. Guided by the moonlight, her silk slippers not making a sound on the crushed stone of the walkway she made her way to the garage.

One of the doors was still open as if he had left it that way waiting for her. She half expected to see him leaning against one of the cars reading a newspaper but of course he wasn't there. Glancing at the window she thought it looked so empty without the pictures of his family he had tucked in some of the panels. Looking around the garage she was surprised to see tools lying haphazardly on the workbench and dirty rags piled in the corner. It was obvious he wasn't working here for he'd never leave the garage looking like this. But then she knew he wouldn't be here.

"I remember Tom" she spoke aloud. "I remember everything."


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter for reviews are always greatly appreciated. I also take them as a sign of interest in a story and I found the divergent comments of the last chapter caused me to think quite a bit about where this is going.

* * *

Standing on the balcony, hidden safely in the shadows from view of those below by one of the large round pillars, Sybil watched as her father and Lady Atherton emerged from the drawing room and followed Carson into the dining room. Trailing on their heels were her mother with Lord Atherton and then Granny, cousin Isobel, Lord Merton, and the rest of the dinner party. Edith and someone Sybil didn't immediately recognize were laughing over something that Larry Grey had said while Mary and Matthew lagged behind everyone else. It was just a little _soiree_ her mother had said, long planned before Mary and Sybil had made known their return to Downton. To Sybil it was just another illustration of the life her family wanted to return to as if the war had never happened while she had no desire to erase all vestiges of the war.

To avoid the dinner her pleading of tiredness had been met with great concern by her mother but Sybil had assured her it was just all the excitement of the past two weeks catching up with her. Two weeks! While the calendar might have shown it had only been two weeks since she and Mary had returned from their sojourn, she would never describe it as a holiday, to the Alps, it had seemed to Sybil like a lifetime ago.

After waiting five long minutes to ensure the dinner party was settled in the dining room, she hurriedly descended the grand staircase, her silk slippers making no sound on the wooden steps nor on the carpet as she darted across the grand salon to the entrance hall. Luckily she had just made it through one of the open entrance hall doors when she heard two of the housemaids enter the grand salon and walk towards the drawing room where they'd retrieve all the dirty drinking glasses and prepare the room for after dinner when the Crawley and their guests would once again congregate.

Quickly darting deeper into the entrance hall where she would be out of view she waited until the maids had entered the drawing room before approaching the front door. It had been a long time since she had actually opened one of the abbey's tall wooden front doors, opening doors was the job of Carson or a footman, and she was surprised just how heavy the door was. As she struggled to quietly open the door she wondered how she had managed this as a child.

It would have been easier and quicker to use the servants stairs but Sybil feared she would run into one of the footmen retrieving a serving dish from the kitchen below and if she had done so she would have run into the housemaids. For her purpose she needed to remain undetected and it would be far easier to do so entering the servants area through the outside door which was away from the hustle and bustle that the dining hour caused the downstairs staff. It was the only time of day that she could think of when Carson would be fully occupied elsewhere and she'd have time to search his office. It would have been easier still if she could have just asked the stately butler for what she wanted but even if he did give her the information, and that was a big if, she was sure he'd tell her father.

Wrapping her arms around her chest, tightening her sweater to ward off the coolness of the night, she briskly walked towards the servants entrance. The day's warmth had faded with the setting sun leaving the night air crisp and cool. With the curtains having been pulled tightly shut, no light escaped through any of the windows on this side of the abbey but there was enough light from the moon and the stars to guide her to her destination.

She feared closing his office door would only attract attention so she stood against the wall away from the view of anyone casually passing by in the corridor outside Carson's office. Luckily he had left the lamp on his desk lit making it easier to retrieve Carson's precious ledger from the large walnut cabinet that took up much of one wall of the room. Just as her father's ledger was a history of the Downton library, Carson's ledger was a history of the staff that had worked at Downton. She knew in the ledger Carson maintained employment information about each and every servant and worker at Downton, the date of their hire, their yearly salary, their position, but the only piece of information she was interested in was Tom's address in Ireland.

She had of course once had that information but it had been taken from her for her bedroom had been searched and stripped of any evidence of Tom's existence. Gone was the only photograph she had of him as well as the book of Irish poems with Tom's inscription on the inside cover that had been a Christmas gift.

"Lady Sybil?" Mrs. Hughes was puzzled by the sight of the youngest Crawley daughter leaning over Mr. Carson's desk especially at a time she should have been in the upstairs dining room with the rest of her family and their guests.

Without acknowledging Mrs. Hughes, Sybil slipped a piece of paper into the pocket of her skirt and snapped the book shut before turning around to face the housekeeper. Although Sybil might envision herself a freer spirit than the rest of her family, one who was not bound to the conventions of her class, she could at times be very much _Lady Sybil_. "I've found what I was looking for" she said defiantly as if Mrs. Hughes had no right to ask what she's doing here.

Mrs. Hughes gave her a slight nod but didn't move from the doorway. Although Sybil now stood blocking from Mrs. Hughes' view the book she had been looking at, Mrs. Hughes had seen enough to surmise what interest Sybil had in Mr. Carson's office. Looking hesitant as if trying to make up her mind about something, she looked down at the floor. As if finally making up her mind, she lifted her head and gazed at Sybil before quietly stating "I have something of yours in my office."

Sybil followed Mrs. Hughes to her office baffled by what belonging of hers could possibly be in Mrs. Hughes' possession. Mrs. Hughes stands at her desk, her head tilted down, still grappling with what she is about to do. The venerable housekeeper has never been thrust into such a situation as she is now facing and she knows that her action may have grave repercussions.

Unlike Mr. Carson, she has never revered the Crawley family instead regarding them as her employers not her betters. But she had always had a soft spot for the youngest Crawley daughter. A bright, sweet, rambunctious child, little Lady Sybil had spent many an hour having milk and biscuits in her office chatting amiably with the housekeeper. Even then, Mrs. Hughes recalled, Lady Sybil had so many interests and their conversations never took a predictable path. Yet Mrs. Hughes couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the child for despite all the trappings of wealth available to her she often seemed lonely.

Still standing, she looks directly at the young woman standing on the other side of the desk. The child had turned into a lovely young woman, bright and beautiful, kind and compassionate. Still headstrong she had often defied her family as evidenced by her outspoken social and political beliefs. It was no surprise that the chauffeur had fallen in love with her.

"It's probably best that you close the door" Mrs. Hughes said as she pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk and took out a small package with twine still holding together its brown wrapping paper.

"This came to me about a month ago." Untying the twine and the removing the wrapping paper she reveals a small square box with a fraying blue ribbon tied around it.

Sybil's eyes widen in recognition as she stares at the small box. Her hand automatically reaches out to grab the box but as her fingers barely brush against the blue ribbon she suddenly recoils as if struck by a thunder bolt. Tears fill her eyes as she realizes the meaning of the box now sitting on top of the desk.

Although Sybil's eyes filled with tears, she doesn't cry or sob, instead she stares as if in a daze at the box. There is no sound from within the room which makes the sudden clatter of a tray or a pan falling on the tile floor somewhere nearby reverberates as if a canon had been shot causing both Sybil and Mrs. Hughes to flinch. The sounds are enough to lull Sybil out of her stupor and she whispers aloud the thought that has sent a dagger to her heart. "He sent it back."

Alarmed at Sybil's false conclusions, Mrs. Hughes hustles to Sybil's side. Reaching out to gently take hold of the young woman's arm she offers a new assurance. "Not for the reason you might think."

Sybil, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears and her forehead creased in confusion, turns and looks at Mrs. Hushes as if trying but failing to understand her words.

"I was shocked when I read the letter that came with it." Mrs. Hughes looks down at the folded letter she's holding in her hands.

 _During my years at Downton you were always kind to me and I must ask for two small favors._

"I must admit I wasn't sure what to do … I …" it was unusual for the unflappable housekeeper to flounder. There was no doubt she had to return the jewelry to Lady Sybil but as to how she did it had presented a dilemma.

At first she had been confused then unsettled by what she had read. She couldn't reconcile what his lordship had done. Regardless of whatever his lordship's motives were it was a cruel thing to. Cruel to both Lady Sybil and Branson.

 _I wondered and fretted over not receiving any replies to my letters, so I should not have been surprised that Sybil was taken ill with that horrible Spanish Flu. Despite what happened with Miss Squire, I was certain that Sybil would recover. I was not prepared for his lordship's telegram informing me of her death._

 _I was angry with him that he waited until she was buried to inform me. I was angry with myself that I didn't come to Downton after Lady Mary told me that Sybil was sick._

 _I've told myself over and over again if only she'd have come with me that morning like we planned. Her staying behind, that she couldn't leave while her mother was ill, is just another demonstration of her kind and caring heart._

"I decided to wait for your return" Mrs. Hughes looked again at the folded letter in her hands. "That I should give the box directly to you. But I think you have the right to see what he wrote."

" _In the box is a necklace and earring set that her American grandparents wanted her to wear on her wedding day. She entrusted this box to me that final morning and told me she would walk down the aisle in Dublin wearing this jewelry._

Her hands visibly shaking, Sybil takes the letter from Mrs. Hughes. Her eyes widening as she reads it, she lets out a small gasp.

 _The ribbon has become frayed from all the times I've opened and closed the box. It is the only thing I have that belonged to her and when I hold the necklace in my hands I feel as if she is here in the room with me. I picture how she would have looked on our wedding day, the blue jewels complementing her beautiful eyes._

 _But the necklace and earrings are too expensive for me to keep as a remembrance of her and I ask that you return them to her family._

Mrs. Hughes looks at Sybil who is no longer reading but rather staring unseeingly at the floor looking stunned and crushed. She wonders if she should say something but Sybil starts reading the letter again and Mrs. Hughes wonders if she had just paused in her reading or if she was reading the entire letter once again.

 _I can never regret my years at Downton because I spent those years with Sybil. Some of that time I may have loved her from afar but a greater amount of time was spent in friendship. That she finally fell in love with me …_

When she finally stops reading again, Sybil sits quietly with her eyes closed. Mrs. Hughes had feared a volcanic explosion but instead Sybil seemed numbed. She is quiet for so long that Mrs. Hughes is surprised when she finally speaks.

"How could he do that? To tell him I was …" Sybil can't bring herself to say the word. Although her voice is barely audible there is no denying it is filled with anger.

Mrs. Hughes cannot find it in herself to give any excuse for his lordship. To say he was only protecting his daughter or thinking of what was best for her seemed trite and she couldn't get over the cruelness of it.

Sybil surprised Mrs. Hughes by suddenly standing up. Taking a deep breath she reached for the jewelry box.

"May I keep the letter Mrs. Hughes?"

"Of course. But please take some time to think before you confront your father. You-"

"I'm not going to rush up to the dining room and create a scene." Although Sybil sounded unexpectedly calm she looked sad and pale as she made for the door.

Her hand on the doorknob, Sybil turned and faced the housekeeper. "Thank you Mrs. Hughes for …" she paused as her lips began to tremble.

"Lady Sybil I'm here if you-"

But Sybil didn't wait for Mrs. Hughes to finish speaking. She gave a slight nod and then slowly walked away.

 _I have one other favor to ask. Sybil loved the gardens at Downton and I ask that if there are any colorful flowers still blooming that you'd take a small bouquet of them to her grave. It is something I wish I could do but I leave for America tomorrow and I will always regret that I leave without having come to Downton to visit her grave._


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I know it has been quite some time since I posted but thank you for the reviews of the last chapter. I always appreciate hearing from you.

Sybil slowly trudged up the servants staircase, her heavy plodding footsteps causing the heels of her shoes to clack on every step, a sound that echoed up and down the cavernous stairwell. It is a walk that since childhood she has done countless times but this time it seems unending as she slowly winds her way towards the floor containing the family's bedrooms.

Just before she reaches the first landing the green baize door that opens into the grand hall bursts opens as two of the footmen appear obviously on their way down to the kitchens as each is holding an empty silver tray. Although both are startled to see a lady of the house in this stairwell and step aside so that she can pass by, Sybil seems to not be aware of their presence. The always observant Thomas notes that Sybil, someone who unlike the rest of her lot always had a smile for the servants, offers no response either by word or nod of their presence. As she continues plodding up the stairwell with one hand holding tightly to the bannister as if that was the only thing keeping her upright, the glassiness of her eyes betraying recent tears and the firm set of her jaw making her appear almost as if shell-shocked, Thomas's curiosity is raised.

The scandalous or romantic, depending on one's viewpoint, Branson and Lady Sybil affair was not an open topic in the servants hall as Carson wouldn't allow it. It was only quietly and stealthily whispered about in groups of two or three but even such whispers died down only to be renewed when Branson left Downton without Lady Sybil. Any further speculation or gossip on that matter was quickly overtaken by the Spanish flu which quickly made its way through the household. The death of Miss Squire, a day or two before her wedding to Mr. Crawley, while the current Countess lay hovering between life and death and the deaths of two of the youngest servants, both barely in their teens, had shaken the staff.

Now, months later, the supposed romance between the Irish chauffeur and the youngest daughter of the Earl was no longer a topic of interest except for the two servants always angling for knowledge or gossip concerning their employers as if such knowledge would give them some advantage in the constant scheming. O'brien had tried to subtly raise the topic with her ladyship but for once the mistress of Downton had not succumbed to any of her wily lady maid's machinations.

As anyone could see, the combination of the Spanish flu and a fall had taken a physical toll on Lady Sybil. Always the most robust of the sisters, she had become a shadow of her former self, weak, pale, and underweight. Although most would say the Lady Sybil that returned from her months long trip to the Swiss Alps looked hale and hearty and indeed much like her old self, Thomas, who had closely worked with her during the war, thought she lacked that sparkle that had made her so different from the rest of her family. As he studiously watched her trudge up the stairs he knew that something was seriously off.

* * *

Many nights when Sybil had something to think about she'd sit in the chair by the far window of her bedroom. From there, with the curtain pulled back and the lamps unlit, she'd sit in the darkness and look out the window to the moon and the stars a sight she always found comforting. Tonight there was a three quarter moon which cast faint strands of light that cut through the darkness of her room in very definite beams but Sybil had turned away from the view outside her window. Sitting with her feet pulled up on the seat, her body hunched over her legs with her chin resting on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs, her hands clutched an almost empty mug of now cold tea.

The tears she had shed were long gone. There had been tears of joy, joy that Tom hadn't forgotten about her, hadn't abandoned her, as well as tears of anger, anger at what her father had done and anger that her mother and sisters had gone along with him. An anger that enveloped everyone else in the household for all had held their tongues until Mrs. Hughes tonight. Sybil had cycled through so many emotions... fury… rage… anger… disbelief … sorrow … that she was now so drained she didn't react as her bedroom door slowly opened.

"Sybil darling" the whispered sound of her sister's voice echoed through the silent room as if she had shouted. Sybil's hands automatically clenched the mug so hard that if it had been her normal bone china teacup it would have shattered.

Mary stood in the open doorway peering into her sister's darken bedroom. She took one step forward into the room and then paused as she realized Sybil was not in her bed. Her facial features were obscured by the dimness of the room as the only light save the few moonlight strands was that streaming in from behind her from the corridor sconces yet Sybil knew that Mary's expression was one of puzzlement.

"Whatever are you doing there sitting in the dark?" Mary uttered upon finally spying Sybil sitting in the far corner of the room.

"Don't!" Sybil barked a little too loudly, a little too forcefully, as Mary reached out to turn on one of the lamps. Just as Sybil cannot clearly see Mary's face she does not want Mary to see hers. Mary has always been able to read Sybil's emotions and Sybil doesn't want her to do so now. She doesn't want her to see the … anger … resignation … sorrow … hatred? For in this moment Sybil realizes she cannot let them know she knows what they did, not if she wants to escape from this house and to find Tom.

Sybil quickly turns towards the window and gazes at the moon now half hidden by clouds. "I was just watching the moon. It's rather beautiful tonight" she somehow manages to say and pleased she sounds to her own ears quite normal.

Mary walks over to the other window and looks out at the sky. "Well I guess that's more interesting than dinner tonight." She sighs heavily as she fingers the edge of the silk drapery. "Mama couldn't have chosen any more boring guests for her dinner party. You're quite lucky to have missed it."

Seeing that Mary edges down onto the bed as if she plans to continue this conversation, Sybil suddenly stands. "I really think I'd just like to go to bed now Mary" she says meekly as her hand wipes across her forward in a gesture she hopes Mary will interpret as tiredness.

Mary looks over at her sister but in the dimly lit room neither can quite make out the other's facial features. Sybil is grateful for the mask of concealment the dimness offers. Although Mary finally moves towards the open doorway, Sybil remains glued to her spot on the far side of the room.

Sybil lets out a sigh of relief as Mary closes the door behind her but it isn't her bed she goes to but rather her writing desk. She needs to make a plan.

* * *

Sybil pauses on the top landing of the grand staircase. It was one thing to face Mary last night when she had the cover of darkness to hide behind but this morning in the light of the day there would be nothing to shield her. It would take all her inner strength to sit with them, eat with them and talk to them without giving them any hint of her rage and anger and hurt. She would do her best to spend as little time as possible with them something with a house this large as well the enormity of the estate grounds would not be a challenge yet she could not eat every meal in her room. If her plan went as she hoped it would only be for a week if that but not much longer that she'd have to keep up the façade.

Breakfast would be the easiest of the meals to get through as there would only be her sisters and Papa. Sybil closed her eyes and bit her lip at the thought of Papa. Her hands automatically curled and uncurled into fists. She heard footsteps cross the grand hallway and opened her eyes to see her father strolling towards the library. As he disappeared through the library doorway, the tenseness drained from her body.

* * *

Completing her errands at the Post Office, Sybil stepped out into the morning sunshine feeling an enormous sense of relief. She had sent the telegram to Grandmama in New York and posted the letter to Mrs. Branson in Dublin. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face towards the sky to bask in the warm sunshine. Although it was late September it felt as if they were on the brink of summer rather than fall. It felt as it had that day … she opened her eyes and looked around her surroundings.

The village looked like it did on any morning with village life carrying on. A lorry drove past, its cargo hidden underneath a canvas tarp. A woman holding a basket with a large loaf of bread in one hand and grasping the small hand of her young son in the other walked past. Two women stood on the corner of the village green talking as a man walking past them doffed his hat. The bell on the shop door of the butcher rang as two women walked out of the shop. A young man, not much more than a teenager, rang the bell on his bicycle as a woman darted in front of him.

Old man Croucher sat in his usual spot on the village green waiting for someone to stop and chat.

Sybil watched as a man holding a small battered suitcase emerged from the Grantham Arms, waited patiently as two motor cars passed before crossing the street and heading towards the bus stop on the village green. She continued watching as he craned his neck to look down the street as if hoping to spy an oncoming bus before setting his case on the ground next to his leg.

Behind him, through the thinning leaves of the trees, some of which had begun to turn yellow, the old stone church was visible. She remembered that early morning when she had come out of the Grantham Arms and like the man with the suitcase had walked to the village green and then on to the church and without thinking she did so now. And just like that morning, that morning that seemed so long ago now, the vestibule was empty. And just like she did that morning, she sat down on the room's sole bench. Only unlike that morning, she knew this morning she would sit her alone for Tom wouldn't be coming from the Grantham Arms to join her.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there remembering that morning.

Remembering the fear that had filled his eyes.

" _This hasn't been an easy decision for me Tom but …" Sybil faltered as tears began filling her eyes. "It's just that since last night … since Lavinia … I … I can't come with you today. I can't leave until I know Mama will be all right."_

Remembering the love that had filled his eyes.

" _You're a professional journalist now Tom and every journalist should have a bag like this."_

Remembering the hope that had filled his eyes.

 _Sybil looked up at Tom and offered him the box. "I'm entrusting this box to you. When I walk down the aisle in Dublin I'll be wearing this jewelry."_

* * *

Mary was on her way to Crawley House when she spied Sybil coming out of the church. There was no denying that the observant Mary had found Sybil's behaviour lately to be puzzling and she had begun to wonder if Sybil had remembered about the chauffeur. Mary stopped expecting Sybil to come towards her as if making her way back to the abbey but watched mystified as her sister instead hurriedly walked in the other direction.

A train was just pulling away from the railway station platform. There were three or four people standing on the platform waving goodbye. A man and woman stood on the platform, three large suitcases setting next to them, obviously waiting for someone to meet them. An elderly couple sat on one of the benches.

Sybil stood at the edge of the far side of the platform just as she had done that morning. She watched as the train pulled away.

" _We'll know in a couple of days if she'll …" Sybil couldn't bring herself to say the words._

" _Then I'll stay and we can leave together as we planned" Tom replied. "I'll contact the newspaper and tell them—"_

" _No!" Sybil interrupted him. "We've already postponed our leaving once Tom. They told you you have to be at the office the day after tomorrow."_

 _Sybil stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Her head against his chest, she could feel his heart beat. "This is our chance Tom. Our future. You have to be there. We can't let this job slip away."_

Sybil watched as the train moved into the distance.

"Why" she whispered into the air. "Oh Tom why didn't I go with you that day?"

Her body began to shake and tears ran down her checks.

She remained glued to her spot even after the train was long gone from sight, her eyes still focused on the path the train had taken.

"I will find you Tom." Although still a whisper her voice sounded stronger, more defiant. She wiped away the tears. "I will find you in America Tom."

At the other end of the platform, to far to hear, mostly hidden by a crate of barrels waiting for the next train, Mary watched her sister's very odd behaviour.


	17. Chapter 17

**Thank you for all the reviews of the last chapter.**

It was all so different from what Tom imagined or expected. The city, the shop, the house, Bronagh's uncle. Not necessarily better or worse just different.

The early morning air was brisk as befitting October but Tom knew that in just a matter of hours it would be warm enough to pass as a Dublin summer day. Yet as he looked around him he knew he could never mistake this city for Dublin and that had been evident from the time he and Bronagh first caught sight of the city from the deck of the ocean liner. On the morning of the seventh day of their voyage, Tom and Bronagh with little Cian snug in his mother's arms excitedly waited on the ship's deck for the city to come into view. Land had first been sighted in the distance as the ship passed just off Long Island. There were no dramatic cliffs like the Irish coast only the long flat barrier islands with their wide sandy beaches.

As the ship neared the city, it was the tops of buildings that first came into view for unlike low scape Dublin, New York's skyline was dotted with some of the world's tallest buildings including the tallest one the Woolworth Building. Any of these buildings now seen in the distance would top anything in Dublin. As the ship turned towards The Narrows, as it name implies that narrow strait linking the lower and upper New York Bay and separating Brooklyn from Staten Island, the borough of Brooklyn loomed on the starboard side with Manhattan in the distance. Finally Manhattan was revealed as the ship sailed up New York Bay and then into the Hudson River on its way to the Chelsea piers, the same piers that had been the destination of the Titanic. Tom and Bronagh marveled at the sights for even from the ship's deck the size and scope of the city was overwhelming.

Tom had never given much thought to America let alone New York City and that he now found himself living here was a quirk of fate or rather quirks of fate for it hadn't been just one thing that led to his coming here. Thinking that he should have been living in Dublin, working as a journalist, and of course coming home each evening to … he suddenly stopped walking and stared blindly ahead. He wasn't in Dublin, he wasn't a journalist, and Sybil wasn't his wife. It was silly to think of such things but even now all these months later the pain of all that had happened was still raw.

Tom took a deep breath as he reminded himself that he had a new life now, a good life that … the sounds of clanging milk bottles as a milkman traded empty glass milk bottles for ones filled with fresh milk woke Tom from his thoughts. The milkman made his way up from the townhouse's lower level steps to the sidewalk where Tom was standing. He tipped his hat and uttered "Good Day Sir" in a voice accented in what Tom had come to know as Italian. That was also one of the things that made this city so different from Dublin thought Tom. While in Dublin one would be hard pressed to hear other than Irish or English accents, here in this city one was as likely to hear an Irish or Polish or German or Italian accent as an American one.

Although in this neighborhood that Tom was walking in those foreign accents most likely belonged to housemaids, cooks, nannies and tradesmen like the milkman and not the owners of the elegant brownstones and townhouses that graced the tree lined street. Those owners, like Bronagh's Uncle Carrick, who if they had once had such an accent it was now barely perceptible. Carrick McGrann, had come to America with the strong lilt of his native Ireland but through the 40 some years he had been in here it had become softer and softer until now there was only the faintest hint of his Irish roots.

Tom reached Park Avenue a grand avenue with a wide grassy area separating the north and southbound traffic lanes. With its many businesses and shops, Park Avenue was a more commercial street than the mostly residential side street Tom had been on. He continued walking walked up Park Avenue and stopped in front of Carrick's stationary shop.

The stationary shop was not the dark and cramped room with narrow aisles lined with shelving from floor to ceiling packed with all sorts of paper goods that Bronagh and Tom had envisioned. Instead, thanks to the three large plate glass windows that filled most of the front wall, sunlight filtered through stately and graceful room as befitting its predominantly wealthy clientele. At one end of the room was a sitting area with two large club chairs facing an ornate wooden desk. Here customers could browse through samples of designs for embossing or engraving their personalized stationary or the wording for their invitations and calling cards. Dark wooden shelves separated by wide aisles displayed boxes of the finest writing papers, envelopes, and note cards. One aisle displayed an array of diaries and notebooks some cloth bound and some leather bound. Other aisles held an array of fountain pens and bottles of ink. It was all very expensive and it was a shop where Lord and Lady Grantham would feel at home Tom thought. Sybil had probably bought his leather bound notebook she had given him to celebrate his job offer from the newspaper at a shop much like this one.

He walked to the end of the block and turned onto East 62nd Street where halfway down the block was Carrick McGrann's elegant townhouse and now Tom's home. He paused in front of the four story limestone townhouse that had been built thirty years ago as a wedding present from Carrick's father-in-law. It wasn't the largest house on the block but it was the most impressive house Tom had ever lived in. Nothing on the scale of Downton but then he hadn't actually lived in that house. The rooms were light and airy with high ceilings and intricately carved white cornices, large windows, marble fireplaces and polished oak floors. The exceptions were the adjoining library and study with their deep mahogany floor to ceiling bookcases but even these rooms could seem light and airy when the heavy brocade draperies were pulled back allowing sunlight to fill the rooms.

Tom was impressed with the collection of books that composed Carrick's library and even more impressed that the man had actually read every one of them. Carrick had a wide range of interests and often in the evening the two of them would sit in the library, Carrick sipping a brandy or sherry while Tom had tea, usually discussing history and politics but sometimes it could be something as simple as common American foods or as intricate as paper making. Although Carrick had established a new life in America in his heart he had never abandoned Ireland. Tom was amazed at how much Carrick was interested in the politics of Ireland and the two could spend hours discussing the current situation in their homeland.

Tom rushed up the steps to the wide dark mahogany front door which contrasted nicely to the tan colored limestone, and then into the marble floored entrance hall. Putting his jacket on the coat rack, he heard the sounds of voices coming from the back of the house. He walked down the long hallway to the large kitchen where Bronagh, holding infant Cian, and Carrick were seated at a round oaken table eating breakfast.

"How was your walk?" Bronagh smiled as Tom leaned over to coo at Cian before taking his seat at the table. He had barely sat down when the Mrs. Grady, Carrick's housekeeper/cook set a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

"I think you'll soon know the area better than me" Carrick quipped before Tom could reply. He found it rather amusing that almost every morning Tom would take an hour long walk around the neighborhood often returning to talk about a business or building that Carrick had no idea existed. Tom wasn't used to idle time in the morning. Since his early teens he had been a working man, mostly as a servant, and had never known the luxury of sleeping in. Since the shop didn't open until ten there was no need to wake up early but a four month old baby was like an alarm clock and Cian loudly made known his desire each morning for a six o'clock feeding.

His work days were rather tenuous. While still Ireland, Tom and Bronagh had planned that Tom would work with Bronagh in the stationary shop relieving her frail and elderly uncle of the demanding chores of running a business. Arriving in New York the pair found that while Carrick was in his early seventies there was no way one could describe him as frail. His mind was sharp, he had a strong wit and the stamina to be in his shop during the hours it was open.

While Carrick had begun showing Bronagh how to keep the books and how to reorder supplies, what Tom's role would be wasn't quite so defined and he had mostly been relegated to the more physical tasks like unpacking deliveries or packing customers' orders. He often took the orders for work that needed to be printed like invitations or personalizing stationary to the printers which was located in a building Carrick owned in lower Manhattan. None of it was work that Tom truly enjoyed and he knew that eventually he would look for something else but what that would be he wasn't sure.

"I think it will be another lovely Indian summer day" Tom commented as he took up his fork to delve into plate of fried eggs and rashers, not rashers but bacon Tom reminded himself, Mrs. Grady had set before him.

"Hopefully it will last through Sunday" Bronagh said.

"A picnic in the park?" Tom smiled at her.

It was a nice domestic scene as those at the table bantered back and forth with little Cian cooing contentedly on his mother's lap.

At first glance it seemed like another typical family dinner in the grand Downton dining room. Chatter among those at the table centered on the mundane sort of things that play out at countless dinner tables in country manor houses. Sybil sat at the dining room table, her head tilted towards her dinner plate as if captivated by the food it held. She wasn't actually hungry, in fact it was hard to swallow each mouthful, but she knew she had to eat to keep up her strength and concentrating on her dinner allowed her to ignore those sitting at the table. She found it hard to believe it had only been two days since that fateful meeting with Mrs. Hughes for the struggle to maintain an outwardly appearance so at odds with her inner feelings was draining and she feared just long she could keep up the charade. But she feared even more what would happen if she let her anger and hurt surface. No she would keep it in until she made her getaway.

They were just starting the fish course, tonight one of cold salmon in a puff pastry covered with a cucumber and dill sauce something that was a favorite of Sybil's, when the door opened and much to Carson's displeasure a footman appeared. Somewhat nervous at being thrust into such a situation, the young lad shakily announced to all there was a telephone call from a Mrs. Levinson.

Cora, presiding over the table, sat up even straighter. "Mother?" the surprise in her voice was unmistakable as she made to rise from her chair.

As Thomas moved towards Cora to help her stand, the young lad pronounced "Mrs. Levinson asked to speak to Lady Sybil" causing all heads to sharply turn to stare at Sybil. Sybil, either ignoring or oblivious to those surprised stares, quickly rose from her seat and darted out of the dining room with a shy smile spreading across her face.

All conversation ceased as Sybil returned to the dining room some five or six minutes later and everyone, including Carson and the footmen, stared at her. Taking her seat and once again ignoring the stares of those around her, she reached for her fork and was in the midst of lifting a forkful of salmon and pastry halfway to her mouth when Mary demanded "well whatever did Grandmama want with you?"

Putting her fork back on her plate, Sybil looked at Mary and in a tone that belied her inner turmoil calmly stated "She has invited me to come to New York."

"You" an astonished Edith blurted out "she wants **you** to visit her?"

It was so like Edith Sybil thought to constantly whine and act aggrieved. She sighed before responding "Actually I contacted her about visiting and she …" Sybil paused and before she could continue Cora jumped into the conversation.

"But why Sybil do you want to go to New York now?"

Trying carefully to structure her words since she didn't want to give her family any hint of her true motivation, Sybil thought for a moment before responding. "It's just that … well …" she looked around the table at the faces staring at her "I thought it might be fun to visit Grandmama in New York.

Giving a faint smile towards her mother she continued "you know I always loved going there and it has been years since-"

"But dear" Cora interrupted "by the time you're ready to leave it would be late fall and that's not a good time to cross back and forth across the ocean."

Contrary to telling Martha that she could leave within days Sybil stated "I could leave in a week or two. It would just barely be October and maybe I'll stay for a while."

"A week or two? We have to plan your wardrobe and certainly you need some new clothes."

"I'm sure I could find clothes in New York Mama that is if I need anything new."

"But the holidays" Cora was obviously distressed "surely you'll be back for the holidays."

Sybil shrugged her shoulders. "It might be fun to experience a New York Christmas. You've talked about how beautiful it is there with the decorated store windows."

"It's out of the question" her father bellowed.

All eyes turned towards Robert. "You can't go running off to New York by yourself."

"Oh Papa I'm not running off to New York as you put it and I'm perfectly capable of traveling by myself."

"I think Papa is right dear" Cora spoke up. "Maybe wait till spring and I could go and maybe Edith or Mary too."

Sybil quickly stood up. "It's almost 1920 and we've been through a war. I'm not some helpless damsel. I told Grandmama I'd come and I am going." With that she threw down her linen napkin onto the table and scurried out of the room.


	18. Chapter 18

**SURPRISE**! **You probably thought it would be another month before you see another chapter but I'm concentrating on getting this story finished. Plus maybe all the reviews helped motivate me!**

* * *

Seeing the two footmen carrying a trunk into Sybil's bedroom, Mary decided to take advantage of her sister's open door and scurried down the hallway. While her relationship with Edith had always been, and would probably always be, turbulent the same could not be said of Mary's relationship with Sybil. Since she had first met her five day old sister, Mary had been captivated by her youngest sister and from that day she had loved Sybil like no one else in her life. Because of this affectionate relationship it was Mary that was the Crawley who first noticed the closeness of her sister and the chauffeur.

It was this also this affection that now enabled Mary to see that there was something terribly wrong with Sybil. Not physically wrong as she had been before their trip to the Alps. Almost overnight it seemed to Mary that the bubbly, sweet Sybil, so like her normal self, that had come back from the Alps had vanished replaced by a virtual stranger who avoided the family like the plague, whose conversations now mostly consisted of one word sentences, and who, so startlingly out of the ordinary kept her bedroom door locked.

Mary entered the bedroom just as the two footmen turned to leave. She nodded at them and then stood silently taking in the unfamiliar scene of a Crawley bedroom in chaos. Clothes were scattered across the top of Sybil's bed, hanging on the open armoire door, and filling the top of the long dresser, a couple of the bureau's drawers were pulled open. The trunk the footmen had just delivered stood next to a second trunk and along with an open but empty suitcase they filled much of the floor space.

Sybil, her back turned towards the doorway, was focused on folding some of the skirts and blouses scattered on the bed and she hadn't yet realized her sister was there.

"Did a storm blow through here?" Mary tried sounding light and airy. She stepped further into the room and fingered a cotton blouse hanging loosely from one of the bureau's open drawers.

It was done so quickly that others might not have noticed but Mary noticed that at the sound of her voice Sybil's back stiffened and her hands momentarily hesitated before resuming her work folding a skirt.

"Certainly you're not planning on taking all this stuff?" Mary carefully stepped further into the room until she was at the foot of the bed. Lifting another plain cotton blouses off the bed she said "Do you really think you need something like this in New York. I'm sure Grandmama would be happy to buy you a new wardrobe."

Sybil continued her inexpert folding. "I already have a perfectly fine wardrobe. Besides Grandmama paid for my passage."

"But certainly you don't need all this" Mary said. "Aren't those blouses more for summer than fall?"

"I'm just figuring out what I have and what I should take" Sybil crisply replied as she continued folding a skirt.

"Rather fortuitous that Imogen and her mother are sailing for New York."

Sybil looked up from her work and focused for the first time on Mary. "What is that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

Mary dropped the blouse onto the bed. "I just meant that it made it easier for Mama and Papa to agree to you traveling now that you'll be with Imogen and her mother."

Sybil dropped the folded skirt on top of two other such skirts and looked towards the window. There had been nothing fortuitous about the letter from Imogen casually mentioning that she and her mother were traveling to New York. The letter had been part of a scheme Sybil had plotted and Imogen readily agreed to participate in. She would have gone to New York whether or not she had her father's _permission_ , the word almost caused Sybil to choke, as if she needed such _permission_. Her parents believing Sybil was accompanying Imogen and her American mother meant an easier escape from Downton. Now she didn't have to worry about the logistics of getting to the port in Southampton, she didn't have to steal away in the dead of night bound for New York with only the clothes on her back and what she could easily carry in one small suitcase. That Imogen was supposedly traveling so soon, within a week of when Sybil had announced her intention to go to New York also worked in Sybil's favor for she wasn't sure how much longer she could endure being around her family.

Mary, carefully watching Sybil, wondered what thoughts were floating through her sister's mind.

"Don't you think Anna should be helping you?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "I'm perfectly capable to do my own packing Mary." Defiantly, Sybil picked up a blouse and began folding it. Left unsaid was that she had no intention of anyone seeing some of the things she would be packing.

There again was that defiance, that touch of anger though Mary. The Sybil that had returned from the Alps was much like the Sybil of old but since then something had changed. Almost overnight it seemed to Mary that the bubbly, sweet Sybil had vanished replaced by a virtual stranger who avoided the family like the plague, whose conversations mostly consisted of one word sentences, and who, so startlingly out of the ordinary kept her bedroom door locked.

Mary tried to think of what had happened in the past month or so that had changed Sybil. She had been fine until … until the night of that dinner party. That was it thought Mary … that dinner party when Mama had not so subtly invited Larry Grey.

"Did Larry Grey do something that night of Mama's dinner party?"

"What?" a bewildered Sybil responded.

"Oh Sybil darling. Something's happened with you. Did Larry say something" Mary shuddered at the thought but she knew Larry was a major cad who was crazy about Sybil "or worse did he do something-".

"I didn't even see Larry that night" Sybil cut in.

"Oh that's right, you were sick that night" Mary commented more to herself than to Sybil.

Mary looked around the room before turning back to face Sybil. "Is that what this trip to New York is about" she paused before adding "avoiding the Larry Greys that Mama will insist on inviting here?"

"I don't want someone like Larry Grey" Sybil raised her voice. "I don't want that kind of life."

"What do you want Sybil?"

"You know the kind of life I want … wanted." Sybil's eyes were dark with anger.

Mary looked astonished at the angry Sybil standing so defiantly in front of her. She looked much like she did as a child when she hadn't gotten her way but unlike that child the Sybil standing here wasn't going to be mollified with a biscuit or a chocolate.

And it was in that moment that Mary realized Sybil remembered Branson and she feared Sybil knew, somehow, of what she had done.

Mary's arm reached out to Sybil but Sybil recoiled at the touch of her sister's hand.

In a hushed tone, Mary asked "have I lost you?"

Sybil didn't need to answer. The look in her eyes, the stance of her body, spoke for her.

* * *

Standing at one of the floor to ceiling windows of her sitting room, Cora looked out and watched Robert as he bent to pet his beloved dog before taking the stick and throwing it with Isis then bounding away to retrieve it. Smiling, Cora thought that once there would have been a lively dark-hair little girl bouncing on her toes as she stood beside her father before chasing after the dog. Only then it wouldn't have been Isis but … Cora shook her head trying to remember. Pharaoh. Sybil had loved that dog as much as Robert Cora thought.

Sybil had been the most delightful child. Sure she had a willfulness and stubbornness about her but none of the meanness or pettiness of her sisters nor did she involve herself in the constant bickering between her older sisters instead often acting as the peacemaker. Sybil, unlike her sisters, thought Cora, would give her no problems

Cora sighed as she let the drapery fall back. Sitting down on the nearest lounge chair, she pulled the shawl draped over her shoulders a little tighter. Not that she was cold for the small fire in the fireplace had taken the early morning chill out of the room but rather it was just something she automatically did when she was deep in thought.

There was no escaping it thought Cora, there was something troubling her youngest daughter who had become quiet, withdrawn and certainly preoccupied. As she pondered this issue, Robert made a rare appearance in her sitting room.

"This came for you in the post."

"I saw you out walking with Isis" she said as he strode across the room to where she sat. She quickly glanced at the window. "It made me think of when Sybil was little. I could picture her standing beside you bouncing around."

Robert handed her the envelope. Seeing the return address of Farrington House, she remarked "Oh Abigail Blackwell has written again."

Robert moved to stand in front of the window while Cora read her letter and he too could envision little Sybil bouncing around, her long ponytail swaying in the wind, and such thoughts brought a smile to his face. She always had such energy and enthusiasm, much more than either of her sisters. He had so loved those times with her. He had loved that child and he loved the woman she had become although he wasn't sure Sybil saw that.

"Abigail says she's made arrangements for them to stay in Southampton on Wednesday night since the ship leaves so early Thursday morning."

"She sounds like she has everything in order."

"So you're fine now with Sybil going to New York?"

Robert turned around to face his wife. "Do I have a choice in the matter?"

Cora briefly closed her eyes, wrinkled her nose and shook her head in that way she did that let him know she was annoyed. "Surely you can see Robert that Sybil is terribly unhappy. I only wish I knew what it was. Do you think …" she paused knowing how her husband hated this topic. "Do you think it has anything to do with Branson?"

"Branson?" Robert sounded incredulous. "That was months ago that he left."

"That's just it Robert. Why didn't she go with him? What happened?" She had come out of the fog of the Spanish Flu to find Sybil still at Downton but seriously ill and the chauffeur long gone to Ireland. "Do you think she's remembered him and that he broke her heart or is she regretting that she didn't leave with him?"

"I think you should drop this subject. We'll let her go to New York. Maybe she'll be swept off her feet by a dashing cowboy or some rich oil tycoon."

Cora sighed as she thought that even after the politics, the nursing and Branson, Robert still didn't understand their daughter. Sybil wasn't interested in money and position. She'll find some cause when she returns. She'll come back fired up when she learns that women in New York can vote.

* * *

"Mrs. Hughes?" Looking up from her desk she saw Sybil standing in the room's doorway and immediately she moved to stand up.

"No please don't get up" Sybil's voice was so soft as she stepped into the room. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

Ignoring Sybil's plea, Mrs. Hughes stood and offered a comforting smile. "Of course."

Sybil took another step into the room before turning to shut the door. With her hand on the door knob she turned towards Mrs. Hughes "May I shut the door?"

In reply Mrs. Hughes nodded. It was only the second time she had seen Lady Sybil since that night she had given her Mr. Branson's letter. Although Sybil looked thinner, her face was no longer so pale, and her shy smile gave a glimmer of the girl Mrs. Hughes had become so fond of.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Mrs. Hughes offered but Sybil shook her head. She did however sit down on the chair in front of the desk.

"I'm leaving early tomorrow and I just wanted to say good-bye before I left." Sybil looked down at her lap, rubbing her hands together and nibbling on her bottom lip. It was a look that Mrs. Hughes had seen countless times especially on a younger Lady Sybil and it usually meant the lass was thinking of something.

"I want to thank you for giving me Tom's letter. I think he chose well sending it to you." Sybil looked directly at Mrs. Hughes. "Not that he thought I was … alive." She again looked down at her lap as tears suddenly filled her eyes. It was still so painful for her to think that Tom thought she was dead.

"If he had sent it to my father or Mary or anyone else I doubt if I would have ever seen it" her voice dripped with venom.

Mrs. Hughes got up and walked around her desk to Sybil. Leaning against the top of the desk she clasped Sybil's hands in hers. "So you're going to try and find him in America?"

"Of course" came the strong defiant reply.

Mrs. Hughes smiled at seeing and hearing the rebelliousness she knew only too well. "I can't say I'm sure you'll find him because none of us can know the future. It's a big country but you've always had such determination and when you set your mind on something nothing will stop you. I do wish you well in your search."

Sybil smiled. "I do love him. It took me so long to admit it to myself and to him but I do love him."

"Aye I can see that." Still holding Sybil's hands in hers she added "I remember the two of you at that garden party, the one before the war."

Sybil's face lit up at the memory of their entwined hands.

"And what of your family? I take it you haven't said anything."

Sybil shook her head. "These past weeks have been so hard. I can barely stand to look at them but I've been too afraid that if they knew what I know they'd lock me up."

There was a knock on the door and then without waiting for a reply Carson opened it. "Mrs. Hughes" he said as he took a step or two into the room and then stopped as he became aware Sybil was there. "Lady Sybil" he said.

Sybil quickly stood as did Mrs. Hughes. To Carson's amazement Sybil hugged Mrs. Hughes. "I will let you know" she whispered into the kind housekeeper's ear then turned and walked out of the room.

"She came to say good-bye" Mrs. Hughes lightly offered in explanation to Carson's raised eyebrow.

"She's only going for a few weeks" he tartly replied. "I hardly think that requires such a display."

"And if it was Lady Mary going would you say that?"

He loudly sighed emitting one of his deep "hmm"s and left.

Mrs. Hughes sat back in her chair and said a silent prayer for Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson.

* * *

The motor car hadn't even begun moving down the driveway when Mary turned back into the house and fled up the grand staircase. Sybil had been cool to the warm farewell embraces of her mother and sisters. To her father she had been downright cold as her body had stiffened and she had turned her cheek away as her father hugged her. She had breezily brushed aside their safe travel wishes and their calls to return home soon.

Although Mary had fled up the stairway wanting the sanctuary of her own bedroom, as she walked down the corridor she stopped in front of Sybil's closed bedroom. Mary put her hand on the doorknob wondering if even now though she was on her way if Sybil had left the door locked but the door opened easily and Mary stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

The draperies were pulled open drawing Mary to the window where she knew the motor car was idling outside just below. She stood there watching as the motor car with one of the footmen in the front passenger seat to help the chauffeur unload the heavy trunks Sybil had packed slowly proceeded down the gravel path.

Mary stood watching long after the motor car was no longer in sight. It was those heavy trunks that had caught Mary's attention. Sybil had filled two trunks and a suitcase not counting the smaller case she was hand carrying. It wasn't just a jaunt over to New York to visit Grandmama. Sybil wasn't coming back.

That acknowledgement hit Mary as if someone had punched her for there was only one reason Sybil wouldn't come back. Sybil knew.

What Mary couldn't figure out was why Sybil would go to New York instead of Ireland.

* * *

While most of the passengers stood at the aft waving goodbye to friends and family standing dockside, there was a solitary figure standing by the railing on the almost empty bow of the first class promenade. Sybil pulled the dark green cloak a little tighter around her to ward off the sudden coolness of the water laden air. She chose to stand here on the bow rather than facing the pier because it symbolized her future as the ship headed forward towards the English Channel and then out to the Atlantic Ocean and on to New York. Sybil lifted her head to feel the wind on her face. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the air was crisp and smelled of the sea. But to Sybil it also smelled of something else, it smelled of freedom.

She had been surprised when Imogen had come to Southampton to see her off. Last night in the hotel with Imogen had been the first time that Sybil had felt a bit of release from the strain she had been under. She and Imogen had spent the evening laughing and crying and plotting and Sybil had been so grateful for Imogen's help and her friendship. Sybil sighed with relief as she pulled off the cloak and threw it across a lounge chair before sinking herself into the cabin's other lounge chair. Sybil felt the tenseness and anxiety that had gripped her completely drain away. Now as the ship sailed away from port she knew it was too late for her family to thwart her plans. She had done it!


	19. Chapter 19

It was morning on the second day of her voyage, her first full morning at sea, and Sybil sat in the lounge of her cabin at the small writing desk, her hands holding the letter. She laid the letter on the desk and looked at the wooden clock shaped like a porthole sitting on the desk top. Noting the time she knew she had to make up her mind soon.

She had been too afraid at Downton, too afraid of her anger boiling over, too afraid of the fury that lurked just beneath the surface, too afraid of her family preventing her from leaving. Yet a part of her wanted them to know why she was leaving, that she remembered, that she was angry, that she was hurt by their actions.

In the end it seemed like a letter would be the easiest way. As attested by the overflowing waste paper basket beside the desk, she had been awake before dawn spending the hours going through various versions, some of which would have certainly ended her reputation as sweet and kind. The greatest consideration had been how to convey her anger and knowledge of what her family had done without disclosing Mrs. Hughes' role for she couldn't cost Mrs. Hughes her job.

She once again read the latest version of what she had written.

Half an hour later Sybil sat in a deck chair on the upper promenade watching the Irish coast come into view as the ship neared the port of Queenstown which would be the last stop until the ship reached its destination of New York City. Too large to dock at pier, the ship anchored in the harbor where tenders would bring to the ship those passengers boarding here. Unlike at Cherbourg where just a few passengers boarded, there were three tenders crammed with passengers streaming towards the towering ocean liner. One of these tenders would return to port with the letter Sybil had written her family.

As the first of the tenders reached the ship, Sybil rose to stand at the railing and watch as its passengers transferred to the larger ship. Instead of the excitement that Sybil and many of her fellow passengers had displayed on boarding the ship in Southampton or even those few that had boarded in Cherbourg, these passengers, even the children that hung closely to their parents, looked scared and forlorn. Lugging all their worldly possessions in one or two battered suitcases often tied with rope or stashed in what looked like burlap bags, these passengers were fleeing their homeland and they knew they would probably never return, that they'd never again see the loved ones they were leaving behind.

They were leaving for an unknown fate in a faraway land and unlike Sybil they didn't have a wealthy grandmother waiting for them in New York. Nor did they have a trunk filled with valuables such as silver candlesticks and photograph frames, intricately carved figurines of ivory or jade, small enameled boxes some decorated with gems, finely carved wooden boxes, or a few desk clocks including one gilded with gold.

Sybil turned her view away from the tender and its passengers to the land on either side of the narrow sea passage into the actual port of Queenstown. A lighthouse stood atop a rocky cliff, its whiteness a stark contrast to the surrounding vividly green fields and to the dark gray of the stones of the cliff that dropped to the sea.

Despite the sunshine, the air was brisk causing Sybil to pull the hood of her cloak up over her head. As she stood at the railing taking in the sight of the Irish coast, for the first time Sybil wondered why Tom had left Ireland. In all the time she had known him he had talked lovingly of his homeland and his desire to return there not just to be reunited with his family but to play some part in the fight for Ireland's freedom. He had been so excited with the job offer from the newspaper, fulfilling his dream of being a journalist. Yet after just a few months he had left Ireland for America. What had made him give it all up she wondered?

* * *

The rest of her voyage was uneventful which suited Sybil just fine. For the first time in weeks she was able to totally relax and she did just that spending hours walking around the promenade or lounging in a deck chair with a book in hand but often falling asleep. On one morning walk around the deck she spied a couple of whales just like she had done on one of the voyages she had made as a child. A rainy afternoon was spent snuggled in the cozy library reading. She eschewed the fancy dinners and dances instead opting for eating in her cabin except at luncheon and tea. One cloudless evening she spent an hour on the promenade deck star gazing and was delighted to spot the constellation Ursa Major with Polaris the North Star particularly bright against the black sky. As the ship neared New York, Sybil realized the past few days had been the first time in her life that she had been truly alone and she had relished it.

Just like Tom and Bronagh had done some two months ago, Sybil stood on the first class promenade deck and watched as Manhattan came into view. It was a cool morning in late October with the dark blue of a cloudless sky forming a dramatic backdrop to the creams, grays and reds of the tall buildings that dominated the skyline. Seen from the deck of the ocean liner the city looked like a mass of granite, limestone, and brick punctuated with panes of glass and topped with spires, towers and domes reaching ever higher into the sky. It had been nine years since Sybil had last visited New York and today she was no less enthralled with the panorama before her than when she was fourteen.

 _Somewhere down there is Tom_ thought Sybil. _He might even be working in one of those tall buildings, standing at the window and watching as the ship sailed up the Hudson River towards the Chelsea piers._

That Sybil was sure Tom was in New York was a leap of faith since his letter to Mrs. Hughes did not indicate his destination in America. That Sybil was sure she would find him in this city of over five million might have been considered an even greater leap of faith.

* * *

At the moment that Sybil stood on the promenade taking in the unfolding sights of Manhattan, Tom was indeed in the city but nowhere near lower Manhattan nor had he ever been in any of those tall grand buildings. At that moment Sybil would have found him in a most familiar scene – dressed in coveralls working on a motor car. To be exact in this case the motor car was a 1912 Ford panel delivery truck used not only for Carrick's stationery store but also the small printing business he owned.

Tom had driven the truck that morning making deliveries and noticed that the steering wasn't quite right so as soon as he got back to the printing business he donned his coveralls and set about the kind of work he was most familiar with. He was just finishing his work when a Ford Model T making a loud high pitched squeal rumbled into the gravel yard that served as a car park for the printing business.

As Tom wiped his hands on a rag, a tall, slender man stepped out of the motor car and walked towards Tom. Smiling he said "Is Carrick running a garage now?"

Before Tom could answer the man continued "I think I could be your next customer."

Up close the man was older than Tom first thought although not nearly as old as Carrick. Tom had been around enough wealthy men during his chauffeur days to recognize the fine cut of his dark gray suit which obviously had been custom-tailored for him.

"Just giving the delivery truck a tune up" Tom replied noncommittedly.

At the sound of Tom's Irish lilt, the man's smile deepened. "Ah!" He held out his hand "you must be Tom recently arrived from Dublin."

Although Tom shook the man's hand, his face must have shown his confusion for the man continued. "Carrick's told me all about you and Bronagh moving here from Dublin. Didn't talk about much else for weeks."

The man's smile broadened. "It's good to see him so happy. I think he's been rather lonely living in that big house all by himself."

While Tom was pleased to hear the man's comments he was also struck by the stranger's openness a trait he found among the Americans he had come in contact with.

"I'm Jonah Harwick. Carrick's been doing my printing business for years."

* * *

Granny and her sisters always described Martha Levinson as loud, brash, and crass but the large parlor, indeed the entire eleven room apartment would earn no such comments. The dark wood frame of the sofa complimented the deep and light reds, golds, and greens of the upholstered seat and back. A rug in deep red with a wide gold band around the edging defined a seating area with the sofa, two matching arm chairs, and a backless lounging bench covered in a deep green silk. Scattered about the room were numerous side tables, chests, and a tall glass fronted cabinet displaying a variety of decorative boxes, vases, and bowls.

Two lounge chairs with a mahogany side table between them formed a more intimate sitting area in one corner while on the far end of the room was a small round table with two chairs cushioned in a deep green fabric. Behind the table, flush against the wall were two matching chairs on either side of a long multi-drawer sideboard.

The walls were painted a light green and were capped with a two foot wide intricately carved cornice that curved up onto the ceiling. Unlike at Downton, there were no dour paintings of long dead ancestors or gruesome hunting scenes covering the walls. Instead the few paintings gracing the walls were of calming seascapes or landscapes. The four floor to ceiling windows were covered in red and gold drapes. All of this, the furniture, the fabrics, the colors, contributed to an elegant room that somehow also seemed comforting and inviting in contrast to the stuffy formal rooms of Downton.

Sybil sank into the comfort of the sofa. Her grandmother was already seated in one of the matching chairs drinking from a flower patterned china cup. A silver tea service sat on the low table in front of the sofa and Martha told Sybil to help herself.

"I love the view from these windows" Sybil stated after taking a sip of tea and looking towards the wall containing the tall windows that looked out at Central Park. The windows of her bedroom had the same view. "Looking out at Central Park I couldn't help but think of when I was little and Grandpapa would take me there. We always had such fun."

Martha smiled for it had been a long time since someone had mentioned her late husband. "He was so fond of you and I think he'd say some of his happiest memories were taking you to the Park's zoo or carousel."

"I think you reminded him of your mother as a little girl but back then he was so busy-" Martha's eyes took on the look of someone wistfully remembering the past.

She set in cup down on the table. "So?" she looked questioningly at Sybil.

Sybil creased her brows in confusion. "So?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted you've come here but certainly you didn't hurriedly cross the ocean just to see me. And judging by the amount of baggage you came with you're not planning on a short visit."

Sybil could feel her face turning red and bowing her head she busied herself stirring her tea.

"Okay you don't have to give me the whole story now. I like a good mystery."

Sybil stood up and walked over to one of the windows. Until she had seen her grandmother waiting for her just outside the immigration area at Chelsea piers Sybil realized she hadn't given any thought to what she would tell her grandmother. Whatever she thought of her family, whatever quarrel she had with them, she didn't want her grandmother to feel she had to choose sides.

Sill looking out the window she quietly said "I want to decide my own future."

She turned around to face Martha. "During the war I was a nurse and it was the first time I felt useful, I felt like I had a purpose. I don't want to go back to how it was before the war."

"And your family doesn't approve of such thinking."

Sybil slowly shook her head. "They can't see how the world has changed that …they want to go on as before as if nothing has changed."

* * *

Three days after his meeting Jonah Harwick Tom walked into a small windowless room that had formerly been a storage room but was now Bronagh's office at the stationery shop. Bronagh, seated at the large walnut desk, was so intently reviewing some papers she didn't notice Tom standing in the doorway. Watching her he though how suited she was to such a job and was impressed that under Carrick's direction she was quickly mastering the tasks of running a business. But then again, he thought, Bronagh had always been smart and a quick learner.

In front of the desk on a blanket spread on top of a braided rug little Cian lay on his back, ignoring the stuffed bunny beside him, happily gurgling away as he played with his feet one of which was now bare. The errant stocking had been flung to the edge of the blanket. Cian was grower bigger every day and Tom thought he looked so much like Bronagh. The mass of darker hair he had when he was born had thinned out and was now a light brown like his mothers. He definitely had Bronagh's coloring with his eyes almost the same shade of dark blue. Tom had never seen a picture of Cian's father but he couldn't imagine any semblance to the man who had abandoned Bronagh. Trying to do as much work as possible at the house Bronagh spent limited hours at the shop but when she came to the office she brought Cian. Soon he'd be too big for the cradle in her office or to lay contentedly on a blanket but Bronagh dreaded the idea of hiring someone to look after him.

Tom stooped down beside Cian who upon spotting him broke out in a big grin and began flailing both his arms and legs in delight. Cian's babbling caught Bronagh's attention.

"Tom" she said in surprise at seeing him.

He looked up at her and grinned.

"You look like a little boy that just stole one of his ma's apple tarts that was cooling on the window sill."

He laughed. "A familiar scene from my childhood."

"But it seems to me it was always Cillian or Caleb that got the blame."

"They were just foolish to get caught."

As Bronagh laughed, Tom leaned over and picked up Cian. "Well Cian do you think your ma could make us some apple tarts?"

"If only I had some apples" Bronagh rose from her chair and walked toward Tom and the baby.

"Well you're in luck my dear as I just happen to have the use of a motor car on Sunday and I thought we could drive a bit north where I believe the apples are ripe for the picking."

"Oh Tom that sounds wonderful" Bronagh clapped her hands before frowning. "And how do you have use of a motor car?"

Before Tom could respond she said "You went with Jonah this afternoon. Did he buy a new car?"

"After looking at several for sale I told him his motor car just needs someone to maintain it. But …" he paused as he looked at Cian.

"I told him how I think it would be better to wait a year or so when the new motors will be a real improvement. That lead into a discussion of one thing and then another." Tom looked at Bronagh. "I think the buying a new motor car was just an excuse to talk to me."

Bronagh tilted her head and narrowed her eyes in that look she gave him when they were children and he said something she thought was outlandish.

"He offered me a job writing for his magazine."

Although he spoke slowly and clearly, it took Bronagh a moment or two to process what he had said.

"Oh Tom!" she cried out. "Really?"

The smile on Tom's face left no doubt. He reached out his arm and pulled her closer and kissed her cheek.

"Oh it's wonderful Tom. I'm so happy for you."

* * *

It was a ritual that had gone on at Downton for as long as the Crawleys had inhabited the stately house. Carson, in his role of butler, oversaw the footmen arranging the silver trays containing finger sandwiches and slices of cake as well as the silver tea service on the damask covered table in the library. He ensured that in front of the stack of small china plates the silver coffee spoons and dessert forks were laid out in two evenly spaced lines. Pleased with his handiwork, Carson left the library closing the door behind him.

"I keep wanting to say why isn't Sybil here yet?" Cora remarked as she took her tea cup and settled comfortably on the sofa.

"It's only been a week Mama" Edith smiled at her mother as she sat down on the opposite sofa.

"I know but it seems like I just got used to her being back and now she's gone again."

Standing by the table holding the tea fixings, Robert stopped filling his plate and glanced at his wife. "I'm sure she'll be back soon."

At his words, Mary, standing beside her father, set the silver tea pot back on the table without filling her cup. _He just doesn't get it. None of them do. She's not coming back._

Robert turned back towards the table and muttered "Especially after spending a week or two alone with your mother."

"Oh Papa" Edith groaned. Then more brightly voiced "you forget how excited Sybil always was about our visits to New York."

"Sybil was a child and anything was exciting compared to the Yorkshire countryside."

The door to the library opened and in walked Carson carrying the afternoon post. As was the custom he gave all the post to Robert who then sorted through the various envelopes. He paused as he looked at one addressed to _The Crawley Family_.

"This must be some sort of invitation for all of us" he announced as he walked to the sofa and handed the envelope to Cora, an act he would soon regret.

Walking to the far side of the room, Robert set the rest of the post on his desk where he'd tend to it after tea. His back was to the rest of the room as he stared out the window watching a deer and her fawn cross the lawn when he heard Cora gasp.

"Mama" Edith cried. "What is it?"

Cora sat with the letter on her lap looking too stunned to answer her daughter.

With Robert and Mary now also staring at Cora, Edith reached over and took the letter from Cora's lap and proceeded to read it out loud.

 _I have remembered everything._

 _I remember being a nurse during the war. It was the first worthwhile thing I have done in my life._

 _I remember Tom. We were going to Ireland to get married and I would continue my nursing._

 _You took away my nursing uniforms, my nursing certificates, my medical books. You took away the only photograph I had of Tom and the book of Irish poems with his inscription that he gave me last Christmas._

 _While you stripped my bedroom of these things you didn't erase my memories of the war, of my nursing or of Tom who is far more worthy than those he drove around._

 _I also know what else you did and I will never forgive you._

 _Sybil_

 ** _A/N: It seems like its taken me quite a while to get Tom and Sybil in the same city. I promise it won't be so long before they meet. Thank you to those who have taken the time to leave a review._**


	20. Chapter 20

"You did what?" The words of disbelief hung in the air. As soon as Cora and Robert were alone Cora had again picked up Sybil's letter and read aloud Sybil's words _I know what else you did_ and asked him if he knew what Sybil meant. Whatever she thought _what else_ might be it certainly wasn't what Robert had just admitted.

"I thought …" Robert avoided his wife's searing gaze. He stood in front of one of the windows looking outside. "With Sybil not remembering it seemed like …"

"But to tell him she was dead Robert" Cora stated her tone indicating she wasn't convinced this had been a good idea.

"If he thought she had changed her mind or if he didn't hear from her I was afraid he'd come looking for her, he'd hound her to go with him."

He turned around to face Cora. "Can you honestly say you wanted her to go with him to Ireland? That you wanted that life for her?"

"Of course it's not what I wanted for her but it … it was her decision Robert."

"So you would have just let her go with him? To a life of poverty? To a country at war with us where she'd be regarded as the enemy?

Cora looked away as she had no answers for her husband.

"Really Cora, as a parent isn't it our job to want the best for our children?"

"Of course it is but" Cora's voice falters.

The room goes silent as both Robert and Cora retreat into their own thoughts. Soon Cora once again picks up Sybil's letter. That Sybil had remembered wasn't surprising to Cora; in fact she believed if Sybil hadn't been so quickly whisked away to Switzerland her memory would have returned sooner.

"So why didn't she go to Ireland?" she asks.

* * *

Standing in Mrs. Cower's empty office, Sybil's left hand brushed the long of sleeve of her slate gray blouse and then continued down her matching full skirt. Just the day before she had just purchased the plain cotton blouse and skirt at the type of shop favored by secretaries and shop clerks. She looked at the long bib apron that had been left for her on the long table that also served as Mrs. Cower's desk. The starched white apron was furnished by the clinic and she would turn it in after each shift to be laundered with the clinic's linens. She grabbed the apron off the table and was surprised how her hands shook as the memories washed over her.

Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves she expertly tied the apron around the collar of her blouse and at her waist. It wasn't quite the same as her nursing uniform, the shade of gray was off, there was no white armband with its bright red cross nor was there the long white scarf that had covered most of her hair, but the similarity was striking and just donning the apron made her stand up straighter. She looked at the reflection of her face in the small wall mirror. Of course she was no longer an actual nurse and the patients in the waiting room weren't wounded soldiers but for the first time since the war had ended she thought she was going to do something worthwhile.

As she rode the streetcar home, Sybil thought the morning had been both exhilarating and disheartening. It had felt so good to being doing something useful but her wartime experiences of treating gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, trench foot, and amputations hadn't prepared her for much of the needs of the clinic's patients. She could take temperatures and give shots or doses of medicine, she could clean and bandage cuts and scrapes, she could stitch deeper cuts and wounds, but treating diseases like mumps and pneumonia were new to her as were treating babies and children.

Most of the patients were immigrants and many were Irish. Although Mrs. Cower and the head nurse Eileen O'Geary had talked to her about the poverty and squalor that many of the clinic's patients lived in it still shocked her to see children suffering from malnutrition. Although she prayed that Tom wasn't living in such conditions, she asked a few of the women if they knew of a Tom Branson recently arrived from Dublin. As much as she wanted to find Tom she was relieved that none knew him.

Sybil had easily settled into her new world. She loved the informality of her grandmother's household. There was no gong, no formal dresses and long gloves at dinner, no footmen, no housemaid opening bedroom draperies and thus awaking the occupant by flooding the room with early morning sunlight. To be sure it was the home of a very wealthy woman but it was not ruled by the hundred years of traditions of aristocratic life. There was a cook for meals that when it was just Sybil and Martha were eaten in what Martha referred to as the sitting room rather than the large formal dining room. There were maids for cleaning her bedroom and washing her laundry but they did not live in the apartment. There was a live-in housekeeper who oversaw the running of the apartment and the needs of its occupants.

There was a rhythm to life in the Levinson household. Martha had a group of cronies and while the locations changed from house to house the activities were set. Monday was lunch and bridge. Wednesday was a Broadway theater matinee followed by tea or more likely cocktails now that such drinks were socially acceptable. Thursday morning was a book club while Thursday night was cards. There were also charity luncheons and dinner parties, with a widening circle of friends and acquaintances, but not on the strict schedule of the bridge, theater, and cards. Sybil found it rather amusing that her grandmother had a much more active social life than any of the Crawleys of Downton.

It was at one of those charity luncheons, sitting next to an acquaintance of Martha's that Sybil learned of the health clinic and had quickly volunteered her services. She needed to do something with her time and didn't relish spending it playing bridge or cards. She had accompanied her grandmother to the theater one Wednesday afternoon and was awed at seeing her first live play and was once again reminded of how narrow her life had been.

Almost all of Sybil's life had been spent in the idyllic Yorkshire countryside. Although her parents went ever year to London for _the season_ Sybil and her sisters stayed behind at Downton with their nannies and governess. There were a few times when the family visited Aunt Rosamund but most of what Sybil saw of London had been from the window of the motor car as it made its way from the railway station to Rosamund's house. The only length of time that Sybil had spent in London was for her season when the entire family decamped there for a month but that was a time for garden parties and teas and balls and late night suppers and not for savoring the sights of London. It was only when she had attended her nursing training that Sybil had spent any time in a city but the rigors of her classes left her with little time to explore what the York had to offer.

As she adjusted to live in New York, she realized how she had been sheltered in so many ways. At Downton there had always been a motor car and chauffeur at her disposal but here in New York she was learning to travel by bus, streetcars, and even the subway. When she ventured to the shops in Downton or Ripon or even York, her father had accounts to which she charged her purchases. Now she needed to carry money to pay for her purchases and her transportation. Except for the occasional lunch or tea while out shopping in Ripon or York, she had never dined in restaurants. Now on two occasions she had met new friends, granddaughters of Martha's cronies, at restaurants for lunch and next week she was attending the theater and then going for a late supper with them.

* * *

Despite the coldness of the day, Robert had taken his usual morning walk with Isis. He noted that the few leaves still clinging to the trees which only days ago had been shades of reds and golds were now curled and faded brown. A brief wind and these would soon join the mounds of leaves scattered around that Isis was now joyously romping through with his paws noisily crunching them.

It had been nagging at him ever since Sybil's letter had arrived. If she really was referring to the telegram he had sent Branson, and despite telling Cora what he had done it was still an _**if**_ in Robert's mind, how had Sybil found out? There had been no further letters from Branson of that Robert was sure.

As usual Carson was waiting for him when he and Isis returned to the house. Giving his hat and coat to Carson, Robert ambled into the library ready to warm himself by the glowing fire. However, he was met with the sight of his oldest daughter sitting at his desk. Although she was facing the window, with her back ramrod straight, the fingers of her left hand tapping on the desktop, the tightness of her jaw seen from this angle, he knew she was upset.

She turned to face him, her face paler than usual, her dark eyes cold and hard and at once he became uncomfortable.

"I knew I shouldn't have done it." Her words were quiet but forceful.

The words she had written appeared in her mind as clearly as if she was looking at the paper they had been written on. _To regain my health I am leaving tomorrow for the Swiss Alps and I shall not contact you again. It was a dream for the reality is that I'm not suited for the life you offer in Ireland. I wish you well and I will always love you._ She hadn't been able to bring herself to say Sybil didn't love him. It was one line that Mary couldn't cross to appease her father. She had seen them at the Swan Inn and she knew that her sister did love the chauffeur.

"We ended up losing her anyway." Mary's voice quivered and she quickly turned her head away. Robert thought she was on the verge of tears.

"I never sent the letter you wrote" he quietly spoke.

Mary raised her head and looked at him. "What?" she said somehow managing to sound both shrill and puzzled.

She looked from her father to the window. "But her letter said-"

"She was referring to something else" he broke in as he took a step closer to her. "That is if she really knows what I did."

* * *

It had been the first major dinner party Martha hosted since Sybil had arrived. Sybil secretly chuckled that while Martha professed the English aristocracy to be a dying way of life clinging on to the past while the world around them was changing she seemed to take great pleasure in introducing Sybil as "my granddaughter Lady Sybil, the daughter of the Earl of Grantham."

The twenty guests, of whom Sybil had only met five or six of them, were a varied and lively group. At dinner Sybil found herself seated between the elderly husband of one of Martha's cronies and a pleasant looking man probably nearing 50. His name was Charles and he was an estate examiner. To Sybil's question of what that was he replied that he valued for auction the estates of usually the recently departed but sometimes for someone who wanted or needed to sell artwork or books or furniture or whatever they thought was valuable.

He was currently working for a recent widow who wanted to sell most of her property and move closer to her daughter who lived on a ranch in Texas.

"The man was a collector and the house is filled with artwork and objets d'art and enough books to furnish a library. I can do most of the other stuff but I need to hire someone to catalog the books."

"Must that someone have any particular talent?" Sybil asked.

And that was how one cold rainy Tuesday afternoon Sybil, a long gray bib apron covering her drab dark blue skirt and blouse, came to be sitting at a table filling out a notecard with the title, author, and date of publication of _The Principles of Scientific Botany._ Completing the notecard she placed the book on a shelf labeled _Science._

The room was probably the size of the library at Downton but all four walls were floor to ceiling bookcases crammed full of books. Most of the room's furniture had been removed so that Sybil had room to work. A large table and chair had been brought in to serve as her desk. Two leather armchairs had also been retained but otherwise the room was bare of furniture. Some of the shelves had been emptied and there were stacks of books lying on the thick Oriental carpet that covered most of the wooden floor.

Working with her was a young lad who was now busy removing books from the higher shelves and stacking them on the floor. It had taken two days to remove enough books on some of the lower shelves so that Sybil had someplace to store the books once she had catalogued them. That work had begun after she and Charles had spent an afternoon deciding on the various categories she would use in separating the books onto newly cleared shelves now marked with labels such as _Travel, First Editions Novels, First Editions Other, American History, and European History._

While many might have found the work tedious, Sybil thought it interesting. The late Mr. Harold Pettimont had been an avid collector of books and his collection was such an eclectic mix that Sybil wondered if his interest had been only in attaining a sheer volume of books rather than the books themselves. She had been delighted to find a first edition of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. Her hands had trembled when she picked up _On Liberty_ by John Stuart Mill a favorite of Tom's.

She took periodic breaks by standing and walking around the library and sometimes wandering into one of the other rooms in the mansion to where Charles was working on the objets d'art. Mr. Pettimont had been just as eclectic in collecting those items as with books. Her breaks sometimes stretched into an hour as Charles discussed with her some of the objects. She was astounded at the value of some of them and she wondered about those _objets d'art_ she had brought with her from Downton, some of which she wanted to sell soon.

She found Charles likeable and was impressed with his knowledge. He had attended university and then worked for twenty years for a reputable auction house before deciding to work on his own. It was also his "worldliness" as Sybil referred to it that made her ask him how she should go about finding someone. Now she knew she had to sell some of her items if she was to take his advice and go to a detective agency.

* * *

Tonight was Martha's card night so Sybil was eating dinner alone in the small sitting room. Knowing that her grandmother would be out, Sybil had worked until almost six-thirty. After a week of working for Charles and the mornings at the health clinic she was tired. Tired in a good way as she had once explained to Edith. As much as she enjoyed her grandmother's company she was also happy to have an evening alone.

Sybil glanced at the two letters sitting on the small side table by the doorway. The table was where Martha had designated mail for Sybil would be placed. These two letters had been laying there for two days now.

"Aren't you going to read your mail?" Martha had asked this morning at breakfast.

Sybil quickly glanced at the side table and the unwanted letters from Downton. She had arrived in New York thinking, hoping, that there would be a letter waiting for her from Mrs. Branson. Sometimes on the ship she had even imagined that instead of a letter it would be Tom waiting at her grandmother's apartment. So far neither a letter nor Tom had appeared.

Finishing her dinner, Sybil stood looking down at the two letters hesitating in picking them up. She had no interest in what her mother or Mary had to say and considered leaving the letters where they were. She wondered if eventually her grandmother would read them if she left them there long enough. The crackling sounds of the dying fire in the fireplace caught Sybil's attention. She picked up the unopened letters and threw them in the fireplace.

* * *

Tom sat on the streetcar as it lumbered down the street. Usually he would have walked to Mr. Harwick's office rather than take one of these crowded streetcars but the sky was threatening rain. He was pleased with his article and he hoped it would be what Mr. Harwick was looking for. He had had both Bronagh and Carrick read it and had made some minor adjustments based on their comments.

The streetcar lurched to a stop as the few passengers that got off were replaced by more passengers. From his seat by the window, Tom's eyes wandered from looking at the oncoming passengers to the people walking on the sidewalk.

It was something about the girl in the purple coat that caught his attention. He strained a bit to get a better look as she neared the streetcar. His eyes widened in surprise as she was almost even with him but she had turned her head so it was only her profile he saw. _It can't be_ h _e_ thought as he sat there dumbstruck.

The streetcar had started to inch forward again when Tom bolted from his seat. He got sharp looks and even sharper comments as he stepped on toes trying to make it to the door. He jumped off just as the streetcar started to earnestly move down the tracks.

He had to wait for the streetcar to move before he could dart to the sidewalk. By then of course she had disappeared.

He ran in the direction she had been heading but after a block without spotting her he stopped. It's silly he thought as he leaned against the side of the building taking in deep breaths. It wasn't her he told himself. It can't be her. She's lying in a graveyard in Yorkshire not walking down a street in New York.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written.**

The man wasn't at all what Sybil expected. Not that she had ever thought much, if at all, about private investigators but somehow the man in his well-cut three piece dark gray suit seemed more like a banker or a country solicitor but then again on second reflection she'd have to admit she didn't know any bankers and the only country solicitor she had ever known was Matthew. Maybe that was it thought Sybil, the man sitting behind the desk reminded her of Matthew, well of an older Matthew. His coloring was much like Matthew's although his eyes were not quite the piercing blue of Matthew's eyes and the blond hair was a bit darker but he looked as if he could have been Matthew's older brother or maybe a cousin.

On his part, Roland Quirk was intrigued by the young woman that his friend Charles had sent his way. When his secretary had ushered her into the office he was immediately struck by her beauty. The dark plum colored woolen coat and matching cloche hat complimented her striking blue eyes and dark hair. Her clothing and manner along with the deep husky voice with that polished English accent proclaimed wealth and breeding yet he knew she was working as an assistant for Charles.

That she wanted to locate a certain Irish man, a recent immigrant from Dublin, surprised him and deepened his curiosity about her. Her reasoning for wanting to find him, that he was an old friend, rang false to Roland but he couldn't detect any nefarious intentions from her. Taking an envelope out of her silk handbag and delicately removing the letter it contained as if it was as fragile as a raw egg she told him the date this Tom Branson supposedly shipped out to America. When he asked to see the letter for himself, she shook her head and quietly said no before putting the letter back into the envelope and putting it back into her purse as if afraid he would try to take it from her.

* * *

Sybil leaned against the high back of the leather chair that had once been part of Mr. Pettimont's office and now served as her desk chair. Swiveling around she looked at the progress she had made in cataloging the late Mr. Pettimont's library. It seemed impossible that after 40 cartons of books, properly catalogued on Sybil's notecards and arranged in properly labeled boxes, had already been removed and now sat in a warehouse Charles owned there still remained stacks of books to catalogue.

The work required both physical (moving, sorting, and boxing books) as well as mental (determining the proper category) acumen. Sybil loved that she was acquiring new knowledge such as what made a book valuable and what types of books were considered scholarly noteworthy while others were viewed as of lessor importance and the work stirred inklings of maybe one day opening her own book shop.

Yet it wasn't just books that Sybil was receiving an education in for Charles was quite happy to discuss the valuations of Mr. Pettimont's vast collections. Maybe, thought Sybil, instead of a book shop it would be a shop selling objets d'art or bric a brac that she bought at auctions or estate sales. Now that she had money, or would as soon as her own objets d'art were sold, she could open a shop.

She had been astounded when Charles had given her valuations for the items she had brought from Downton. When she had first sat in her bedroom at Downton and considered what she'd bring to America, Sybil only thought about some of her clothes and maybe a few pieces of jewelry. She didn't know how long or how much it would cost to find Tom and she couldn't depend on her grandmother financing everything. She had her trust fund from her grandfather Levinson but that only gave her a small monthly allowance.

As the realization of what she was doing, that she was leaving her home and family forever, she thought why shouldn't she take everything that was hers? Her jewelry would certainly sell for considerable sums. Even simple things like her hat pins or hair pins, some made of gold, some adorned with diamonds or emeralds or other stones, would probably fetch quite a bit. As she looked around her room she noted the small ivory box in which she stored her favorite hair pins, the jade elephant figurines that had been a present for her tenth birthday, the crystal jars in various shapes and sizes, and the jewelry box with the enameled lid. Nothing held any sentimentality for her anymore, not the small gold clock that Granny had given her when she moved into this bedroom, not the set of three carved ivory angels that had been a gift from her mother. Instead she looked at everything as to whether it was something she could sell.

As Sybil went through the curios that decorated her room, another nagging thought raged in her. When there had been all that consternation about the entail and Matthew inheriting Downton and her mother's money instead of Mary, there had been no consideration of her or Edith. Why should her mother or Granny or Mary think that Mary should have inherited everything while leaving only crumbs for her and Edith? She and Edith were just as much a Crawley as Mary. And didn't she and Edith have just as much right to her mother's money as Mary?

As a child, she had spent many rainy or cold winter days exploring the house. There were empty rooms where she'd throw or kick a ball around. There were rarely used rooms where, away from her constantly bickering sisters, she'd curl up in a blanket and read or play with her toys in peace and quiet. There were rooms crammed with unwanted or unneeded furniture and possessions accumulated by generations of Crawleys where she'd spend hours peeking underneath drop cloths looking for hidden treasures. Now sitting here she thought why shouldn't she have an inheritance? Why not take some of those unwanted or overlooked items that sat long forgotten in those rooms?

* * *

It seemed strange to be all alone in the apartment but it was what Sybil wanted this New Year's Eve especially after all the hustle and bustle of the past couple of weeks. She loved the intricate displays in so many of the city's shop windows and had even taken walks some evenings just to admire them. There had been dinners and parties and, if one didn't count those childhood tea parties with dolls and stuffed animals as guests, she had even hosted her first party. The twenty or so guests, a few new friends, a few acquaintances, and a few guests of those friends or acquaintances had dined on canapes and danced till midnight.

In the small sitting room, Sybil, sat in one of the two overstuffed arm chairs holding a stemmed crystal glass filled with a nice white wine. Sybil held the glass up and gave a small shake of her head thinking that in some ways Americans were a funny lot. To alleviate the prohibition on the sale of alcohol which would go into effect in the new year her Uncle Harold, probably like many Americans, had stockpiled in the cellar of their Newport mansion crates of their favorite bottles with hope that prohibition would be lifted before they had consumed all her bottles. When Uncle Harold had visited for Christmas he had bought two crates of wines, brandy, sherry, and four bottles of champagne.

In the dim room, lit only by the warm glow from the fire in the fireplace, Sybil moved the armchair so that she could look out the window with its view of Central Park. Dressed in the silk lounging pajamas that had been a Christmas present from Gran (she had decided it was too formal to keep calling her Grandmama and _Granny_ would always conjure up an image of Violet _)_ Sybil curled up in the chair. Running her had down one of the long sleeves of the silk tunic Sybil thought the pajamas seemed so modern and so typical of Martha Levinson. She chuckled thinking that the muted gold flickered with dark green colored tunic with its Oriental touches and the matching dark green trousers would cause as much consternation at Downton as her harem pants had done oh so long ago.

Although the wall clock had chimed ten, the night outside was not an inky black as the cast iron lamp posts evenly spaced on the other side of the pavement of Fifth Ave gave off soft arcs of light that illuminated sections of the pavement as well as the low stone wall that separated it from the park and the trees beyond. Over the barren tree tops and far across the park, the lights from the buildings on the street bordering the west side of the park were visible although the buildings themselves were lost in the unrelenting grayness. As she looked out onto the night, a few cars rambled up Fifth Avenue while a couple, his arm wrapped around her waist, strolled on the pavement next to the park.

 _Wrapping herself in the coat she had earlier hidden in the unused parlor, she quietly let herself out through the foyer. Strains of music could be heard as she scurried towards the garage._

 _It was unusual to see the garage doors pulled shut but the night air was too cold to have left them open. She quickly opened one of the doors and stepped into the garage pulling the door closed behind her. The room was softly lit by a small lantern Tom had placed on the work bench along the back wall._

" _You came" his words conveying surprise._

" _You doubted me?" She stood still, her arms behind her back._

 _He smiled at her. "Of course not. But I wasn't sure you'd be able to get away."_

 _She sighed. "I think we have a few minutes before I'll be missed."_

" _Enough time to enjoy some of this" she smiled as she revealed a bottle of champagne. She had taken one of the half empty bottles that littered the long table that had been set up in the grand hall._

" _Happy New Year Tom" She said as they tipped their mugs. "To 1919."_

" _Happy New Year Love."_

 _It was an incongruous sight as the Lady, dressed in a fine silk gown, and the chauffeur, he in the dark green pants of his livery with a hand knitted sweater over his starched white shirt, standing in the middle of a garage sipped champagne from two chipped mugs._

" _Where do you think we'll be next year Tom?"_

" _Maybe with my family and friends at a ceili. Or maybe in the quietness of our flat." Even in the darkness he could see her blush. "But whatever we'll be together."_

 _He leaned in to kiss her and she responded with her arms tightening around his back._

She woke as someone shook her arm and blinked as it took her several moments to realize where she was. "Gran?" she whispered at the figure standing before her in the dimly lit room.

"And who else might it be?"

"I … I …" Sybil shifted in the chair to sit up straight. "I guess I fell asleep."

Martha picked up the wine bottle from the tray table. "Well you didn't fall asleep from too much drink" she laughed.

"Is it after midnight already?" Sybil wondered how long she had been asleep.

Martha shook her head as she poured some wine into Sybil's glass "Not quite" she said as she handed the glass to Sybil. She walked over to the sideboard and lifted another glass which she proceeded to fill with wine.

"But why then are you here?"

"I didn't want to get stuck at the Howleys especially not with Mr. Pickler following me around all evening."

"But why would you-"

"Haven't looked out the window lately have you my dear" Martha interrupted.

Sybil turned towards the window and gasped. "It's beautiful" she exclaimed as she saw the snow covered scene down below in the park. "It looks so romantic especially for New Year's Eve."

She looked back at her grandmother and grinned. "So your idea of a fine New Year's Eve isn't being snowbound with Mr. Pickle?"

"It's Pickler and no it isn't" Martha retorted causing Sybil to laugh.

"It almost makes me wish I had come with you just to see him chasing-"

"It was probably more enjoyable sitting here drinking this wine and eating" Martha stopped and looked around the room. "Mrs. Handley did leave … ah" she said as she took the tray off the dining table.

Silence returned to the room as both Sybil and Martha, now sitting in the armchair across from Sybil, nibbled on shrimp cocktail, crabmeat mouse, and a selection of crackers and cheeses. The silence was suddenly broken by the faint sounds of firecrackers.

"It's 1920!" exclaimed Sybil. She leaned over to tip her glass with Martha's.

"To 1920!" Martha heartily replied. "May the year bring us many blessings."

For Sybil it was a quiet New Year's Eve but one full of hope and optimism for the coming year. Whatever disappointment she had at finishing her work on the Pettimont estate had been countered by Charles' offer of a permanent job as his assistant. It was an offer she enthusiastically had accepted especially after he agreed to her continuing to volunteer at the health clinic two mornings a week.

She had come to New York on a mission and in some ways it might have been said her grandmother's apartment was just a convenience while she pursued that mission. But the reality was that in the two months Sybil had been in New York her grandmother's apartment had become her home. She had a new life now, a life on her terms and she had her grandmother to thank for that.

* * *

The printing shop seemed eerily quiet. The presses had been turned off and the workers had left leaving only Tom to lock up on this late afternoon of Christmas Eve. Tom had slowly taken over running the printing shop and he was surprised how much he actually enjoyed the work as he learned to operate a business. With a manager and a secretary handling so much of the mundane daily work, Tom found he still had time to write for Jonah Harwick's magazine. His first article, on how the motor car had changed society, was to be published in the late January edition.

Tom walked through the main floor ensuring that all supplies had been properly put away. Keeping to tradition Carrick had ordered the shop to close this afternoon and Christmas day yet giving his workers their full pay. _I don't stiff my workers_ Carrick had told him. _I might charge my customers, especially those silly geese with more money than sense that will pay double for stationary in a fancy box tied with a bow than buy it wrapped in a paper sleeve, but I would never make my wealth cheating my workers of fair pay for fair work._ In Tom's eyes that made Carrick a rare man especially in this day of rampant poverty and so many were willing to exploit not only men but women and children with not only poor wages but sometimes dire working conditions. _I've been poor Tom, I know what it feels like to go to bed hungry, it may have been a long time ago but it's something you don't forget._

Although the air was cold even with the sun shining brightly in the almost cloudless sky, there were plenty of people bustling about making last minute purchases of gifts or food for the holidays. As the streetcar made its way up Lexington Ave, the crowds made him glad he had finished his shopping a couple of days ago. The brooch that Bronagh had oohed and aahed over when they had walked past the shop window while out one evening admiring the Christmas lights and decorations was wrapped in shiny green paper with a pretty green and white bow and just waiting to be placed under the tree which they'd put up this afternoon. He had already bought her a dark blue blouse that he thought would go so well with her light brown hair and rosy complexion. It had a row of beading and embroidered flowers that ran down the left side and that the shop clerk had assured him was very smart. With the money that Jonah had paid him for his article plus an advance on the next two articles he had ordered Tom could well afford the beautiful brooch.

Although it had been the tall chest of drawers displayed in the window that had drawn him into the shop it was the chest sitting in a dusty corner that captured his attention. With its humpbacked top it looked like what the boyhood Tom would describe as a pirate treasure chest. It needed to be cleaned up but it would be just perfect as a toy chest for Cian. With his labor and Carrick's money Tom had worked for weeks turning a small unused room into a nursery for Cian. It would be a surprise for Bronagh Christmas morning when Tom and Carrick finally let her into the room that she thought Tom was making into an office.

When the streetcar stopped on the corner of 59th Street Tom once again admired the festive windows of Bloomingdale's. As he stared at the windows across the street _she_ suddenly appeared in his mind. Sybil had loved the sights and smells of Christmas and he thought how much she would have loved this city decked out in such wondrous displays.

" _Doesn't it look beautiful" she said as the motor car rambled down Ripon's High Street. "The shops Branson" she began to explain "their lovely wreaths and ribbons and the greenery on the lamp posts."_

 _He had to admit it did look festive but instead of the excitement she displayed he was feeling a bit homesick for it would be his first Christmas in England._

" _Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year. I love the lights, the decorations, the scent of pine everywhere. Wait till you see the tree we put up in the Grand Hall!"_

 _He looked up at the rear view mirror and smiled as he saw the sheer delight etched on her face as she looked out the window. "Do you want me to park somewhere?"_

 _She turned so she was looking at him in the mirror and smiled. "Anywhere would be fine. I think I'd just like to wander around a bit."_

 _She stood on the pavement looking at him standing next to the car. "Surely you'd rather come admire the decorations with me than sit in the car?"_

 _For probably a half hour, after all the street wasn't that long, they wandered admiring the decorations. While the greenery looked just like greenery to him she knew the type of tree or plant. "Really Branson you don't know your pine from your boxwood or your cedar?"_

 _As they drove up the gravel path to the front of the abbey she said "I wish we could go to York but I think we'll have to settle on going tomorrow to Thirsk. Next year for sure we'll go to York. I bet their decorations are magnificent!"_

 _Neither of them could imagine that the next year England would be at war._

Instead of turning left when he got off the streetcar Tom went east and walked to a small church he had discovered on his early morning rambles during his first weeks here. Carrick preferred going to the grand St. Patrick's Cathedral for mass and it's where they'd go tonight for midnight mass but Tom liked the simplicity of this small stone church which reminded him of the church of his youth. He took a moment to admire the simple boxwood wreath decorated with apples and bright red berries that adorned the wide oval topped black door.

The thee-tiered stand of candles was to the right of the altar. Tom lit a candle and silently said a prayer before walking to a pew about halfway back. There were only three older women scattered about the pews, their heads covered and bowed, silently praying. Tom bowed his head and closed his eyes. _It's your favorite time of year Sybil and I wish you could see it here. But then again maybe you can see it. And you know what I've been doing. I promised you I'd make something of my life. I got sidetracked there for a while but …_ He paused as he wiped away a tear. _Know that no matter what I'm doing or how happy I am ..._ He stopped again as he remember what the priest had said the first time he came here early on that October morning. Tom had refused to take confession but asked the priest if they could just talk. "She'd want you to be happy wouldn't she" the priest had said after listening to him. He closed his eyes again. _Please be happy for me._ This time he didn't wipe away the tear that fell. _Oh Sybil you will always be in my heart and I will miss you for the rest of my days._

* * *

New Year's Eve was a small but lively affair at the townhouse on East 62nd Street. Just five close friends of Carrick's came for dinner and to ring in the new year. But it was a lively group and the conversation, punctuated with much laughter, flow easily among the group. So engrossed in their conversation they hadn't realized it was snowing until the guests readied to leave at almost one in the morning.

Tom bundled up and trudged outside to make sure their guests got safely to their cars. Maybe it was just the thrill of the first snowfall or maybe it was the gaiety of the holiday or maybe it was the alcohol that had been consumed but all along the street people were out. A fierce snowball battle seemed to be taking place at the far end of the block while another group were just putting the finishing touches on a snowman and still others were more sedately walking along down the street admiring the snow covered trees and bushes.

With his back to towards the house, Tom was watching as the car slowly started down the road when he was pelted with a snowball.

"What the …" he started to sputter as he heard laughter. Turning around he saw a bundled up Bronagh laughing.

"Why-" he started packing some snow as she tried to run but he was quicker and his snowball landed on her chest.

"If I remember correctly I think Aideen and I got the best of you and Cillian that time your family came for Christmas" Bronagh bragged although her latest snowball missed Tom and hit the neighbor's steps.

"If I remember correctly Cillian and I were vastly outnumbered with all the rest of you ganging-" WHOMP. This time Bronagh's snowball hit her target on the shoulders.

Ten minutes later with both of them covered with snow and laughing as if they were once again those eight year olds on the Curran family farm, she called out "Okay truce Tom."

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in as close as their heavy coats would allow. "Happy New Year Bronagh" he said before kissing her.

* * *

Days later the snow cleared from streets was pushed into mounds that appeared haphazardly in the most inconvenient places and contributed to a constant stream of slush much to the bane of pedestrians. The greenery and decorations that had emitted such a festive atmosphere had been removed taking with them much of the joy and good cheer that had flowed through much of the city's population. Yet the cold and grayness of January had not dampened Sybil's spirits, indeed her spirits soared as she began her new work as Charles's assistant.

Roland Quirk felt a pang of guilt for the news he was going to give her. She entered his office wearing the same plum colored coat and hat and looking as elegant and polished as before. Her eyes sparkled in anticipation and that pang of guilt that he didn't have the results she wanted only deepened. She declined his offer of a cup of tea giving him no choice but to get on with his business.

"I'm sorry to say that neither the immigration records nor the shipping lines show any Tom Branson entering New York. We checked the records from a week before the date on your letter through a month afterwards."

Roland noted the slight slumping of Sybil's shoulders and the luster dimming in her eyes. He went on to detail the work his company had done, the checks that had been made not only here in New York but at other US ports. The checks with newspapers since she had said he was a journalist but none reported having a Tom Branson on staff.

She was only half listening as he droned on. She had entered his office with such high hopes but the news that no Tom Branson was found through either the shipping lines or immigration authorities stunned her. Had she been wrong to come here instead of going directly to Ireland?

Ireland. The word caught her attention and Sybil raised her head to look directly at Roland.

"I can contact someone in Dublin to carry on checks there." She paid closer attention to his proposals.

"But you have to understand that with the troubles over there right now, it may be hard to get people to talk. They might misinterpret the reasons for wanting to find this man especially if he's a republican."

"I want you to do whatever you possibly can" replied a determined Sybil.

What neither Roland Quirk nor Sybil could imagine was that no Tom Branson was found for the simple reason that Tom had not entered New York as Tom Branson. Somehow there had been a mix-up when Carrick's secretary had made the reservation and payment for the first class cabin and therefore both the ocean liner and Immigration listed him as Carrick McGrann. As first class passengers Tom and Bronagh were waved through with the most cursory glance as the Immigration authorities concentrated their efforts on the steerage and third class passengers who would be transferred from the Chelsea pier to Ellis Island for medical and legal inspection.

* * *

Taking place three weeks after New Year's was a charity ball called the Winter Ball. It was the last prominent event of the winter season for the New York social set. Normally it wasn't something that Sybil would be interested in attending but at her urging one of Martha's friends, who just happened to be on the committee organizing the ball, had gotten the health clinic listed as one of the benefiting charities. Photographs of the ball made all the New York papers including one photograph that very prominently showed Lady Sybil Crawley, the daughter of the Earl of Grantham according to the photograph's caption.

One of life's mysteries or challenges, depending on one's point of view, is that sometimes something that seems so straight forward, like an Irish private detective's search for answers, or so insignificant as a photograph could have such unintended consequences. And as these events unfolded those consequences were devastating to both Sybil and Tom.


	22. Chapter 22

Gone were the twinkling lights of Christmas trees that had emitted rays of color into the dark December nights. Gone were the garlands of greenery, usually pine or ivy, that had decorated lampposts. Gone were the cheerful bright red ribbons tied on wreaths that had decorated so many doors.

The lightness and happiness of the holiday season had lingered well into January in the elegant townhouse on East 62nd Street. Everyday brought a new delight with little baby Cian whose broad grins, now showing two tiny bottom teeth, were like rays of sunshine and it didn't take much to make him laugh a sound which Carrick would describe as angels singing. He had begun to rock back and forth on his hands and knees with his little bum in the air and it would only be a matter of days before he began crawling.

With his younger siblings and myriad number of cousins, Tom had grown up around babies but then they had been chores to be tended to or looked after. Somehow it was all so different with Cian. He loved those times when he'd hold Cian on his chest and gently rock back and forth until Cian's soft coos had become quiet with sleep. He loved those times bathing him and watching him squeal with delight as he played with the bubbles or squeal in displeasure when a drop of water touched his eyes. In was in those moments when Tom realized he loved Cian as if he was of his own flesh and bone.

Tom was thankful for the warmth of his long dark gray cashmere coat as he walked the short two blocks from the streetcar stop to the house. The coat had been an old one of Carrick's that had been hanging unused and no longer wanted in one of the basement storage rooms. It was without a doubt the finest piece of clothing that Tom had ever owned. With the soft gray cashmere scarf and winter cap that Bronagh had given him for Christmas, he looked in her words "Not only dapper but like an executive businessman."

Approaching the house he could see the glowing lights that spilled through a tiny opening in the closed drapes of the front parlor and into the dark evening. He smiled knowing that inside there would be a roaring fire in the parlor and the smell of a roast, maybe chicken or beef, would be scenting the air. It had been a long tiring day of never ending problems, a broken valve on one of the printing presses, spilled inks, a missing order, a customer who had ignored the third request for payment, and a disagreeable potential new customer who Tom was happy to see decide to take his business elsewhere.

He opened the front door and stepped into the marbled floored entrance hall. Taking his coat off and putting it on the mahogany coat rack that stood just to the left of the door he took a few sniffs and then slightly chuckled. It was roast chicken! What could be better on a cold evening like this that to come home to a warm house and a good meal shared with … the echanting sounds of Cian laughing caused Tom to deepen his smile. _I'm home_.

He followed the sounds of Cian's laughter down the hallway to the kitchen. Bronagh, her back to him, was seated at the round table holding Cian while Carrick, holding a magazine, was standing nearer the large window that looked out towards the private garden in back of the house.

"Ah" Carrick said upon spotting Tom. "The man of the hour is here."

Tom raised his brow wondering what on earth Carrick was referring to but Bronagh remained silent as Carrick turned towards the long low sideboard in front of the window. Picking up a bottle that had been sitting in an ice bucket, Carrick pronounced "I think today calls for a celebration."

It was then that Tom noticed the three champagne flutes sitting on the kitchen table next to some magazines with Jonah's _The Standard_ on top.

"You name's not on the cover but the title of your article is" Bronagh said.

"I thought Bronagh was going to buy every copy in the shop" commented Carrick.

"Well I knew you wanted one, and Carrick, and" she looked up at Tom and smiled "your mother. I thought you'd want to send one to her. I know she'll be so proud of you Tom."

They all laughed at Cian's face, his eyes widening and his mouth opening, when Carrick popped the cork on the champagne.

* * *

After the whirlwind of parties and dinners of the holiday season and more broadly the New York winter social season, it was back to their normal routines at the grand Fifth Avenue apartment of Martha Levinson. For Martha that meant her weekly bridge and card games, her afternoon matinees at the theater, and her weekly book club meeting intermingled with dinner with friends.

For Martha the highlight of the social season had been the Winter Ball the last event of the season. There was no doubt in Martha's eyes that her granddaughter had been the belle of the ball. Dressed in a dark lavendar satin gown Sybil had easily stood out not only for her beauty but her captivating smile, her warm personality and of course that oh so polished English accent. That she had easily charmed New York society was evident by the amount of money that had been donated to the health clinic once it was known she was its patron.

What Martha didn't understand was that since the ball several men had come calling but Sybil had easily rebuffed them all. Instead she had thrown herself into her work at the health clinic and her new job with Charles which left her with little time for a social life. Even more perplexing to Martha was that what little social life Sybil had seemed to center on two Irish nurses she had befriended at the clinic and the granddaughters of Martha's cronies.

Sybil eased her head back onto the ledge of the tub and closed her eyes. It was heavenly to lie here in the warm lilac scented bubbles. She hadn't felt like this since the war. _I know what it is to work now. To have a full day. To be tired in a good way._ She had thrown herself into her work, had been going full steam now for the past several weeks, ever since Mr. Quirk had delivered his news or well lack of news she thought might be a more appropriate description.

The work at the clinic, while not of the horrors of war, had been in many ways just as challenging and certainly often heartbreaking. She was also surprised by the hostility she received from certain patients. _What have we done in Ireland?_ Luckily most patients were grateful for her care.

The work with Charles was challenging in a most different way. While she at least had some knowledge of medicine and nursing, the same couldn't be said of the appraisement business unless one counted her years surrounded by oil paintings, exquisite crystal and porcelain, and all the trappings that came with growing up in an old aristocratic English family.

If there was one thing Sybil knew about herself it was that she loved learning and these days she had so much to learn.

* * *

Late January had settled into the grays and browns that seem to dominate winter. The cold and darkness of winter persisted as January turned into February. No one lingered on the streets as people hurried about wanting only to get back into the warmth of indoors.

* * *

Dublin was also in the throes of winter and while it might have been a bit warmer than New York the gray skies frequently gave way to a cold unrelenting rain. Desmond O'Malley stood on the corner looking at the block of small attached houses. There was nothing much to distinguish this block from so many just like it all over this part of Dublin. He had done some work before for Roland Quirk but that had consisted of paperwork checks not trying to locate someone.

Desmond had hoped the newspaper this Tom Branson had once worked for would be a good lead but alas the paper was no longer in business. It wasn't that unexpected for these small Republican papers seem to come and go, sometimes changing names, trying to stay a step ahead of the British authorities. But it did let him know that this Branson fellow and probably everyone that lived on this block where he was now standing were Republicans and that meant it might be a bit harder to get any information from them. Tensions had been running high since Sinn Fein had declared independence and formed a new government. Since then violence had quickly escalated between members of the Irish Republican Army and the Royal Irish Constabulary.

There was no reply at the address he had been given as the Branson family home. His knocks on several neighboring doors had mostly gone unanswered except for two that upon hearing he was looking for information on Tom Branson quickly shut their doors. Noticing an old lady watching him from the front window of her house he ambled over to her door.

At least she didn't quickly shut the door in his face and after listening to him surprisingly she ushered him in to her hallway. The house was chilly and the woman was wearing a heavy woolen sweater over another threadbare sweater with a long wool scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. "Don't want that Cillian Branson who's been hanging around his mother's to see me talking to ya. He can be a mean one that one."

"Of course I know Tommy. Known him since he was born." The old lady nodded her head towards the house across the street. Desmond had a bit of trouble trying to get her to focus on his questions as she began railing about the Bransons.

"Claire Branson always goin on about how smart he was how he was gonna make something of himself" she snorted. "Been working for the Brits in some big house in England. Bet Cillian and his lot don't like that."

"Came back what a year ago maybe. Claire bragging that Tommy had a newspaper job and was gettin married. Then that girl showed up maybe a month later. Didn't take but a few weeks to see that he had to marry the girl."

"He got married?" Desmond finally cut in.

"Had to hadn't he?" She snorted once again. "Not so high and mighty now just like a lot of the other lads around here. Not like my Billy who waited proper like."

"Do you know where Tom is now?"

She shook her head. "Baby must not have been more than a few weeks when they up and left. Heard they went to New York."

* * *

March can be the cruelest month. There are days when the sun shines and there's a warmth in the air that signals spring, that time of renewal, is coming. Then just as suddenly it can plunge back into winter, turning so cold that one wonders if spring will ever come. Life can be like that also, taking us from joyousness and plunging us into sudden darkness.

* * *

Bronagh stood in the sparsely furnished room on the lower level of the townhouse that jutted out into the back garden. It and the terrace just above it had been added to the house some years ago. With three walls of windows it had once been a garden room but since the death of Frances some fifteen years ago it had become an used space. Now that Cian was beginning to crawl Bronagh thought the space might be a good room for her to work in while Cian crawled around. She was studying the dimensions of the room and thinking of what size carpet she'd need to buy when she heard what sounds like muffled sobs.

She found him in a windowless room used for storage. Bronagh hesitated at the door which was only open a few inches, not enough to see into the room but enough to hear the muffled sobs. Fearing what she would find, Bronagh slowly opened the door.

The room was dim, lit only by the daylight that filtered through the partially opened door. Against one wall were boxes stacked two or three high. A few pieces of unneeded furniture were scattered about the room, mismatched wooden chairs of the kind suitable for a kitchen or dining table, two small night tables, a large wooden trunk, a tall narrow dresser, and in the center of the room nestled against the back wall was an old fashioned roll top desk. Tom was sprawled in a chair in front of the desk, his head and shoulders slumped, his right elbow resting on the desk top and his hand rubbing across his forehead shielding his eyes from view .

The stuffy air of the room reeked with the smell of whiskey. Wrinkling her nose at the strong smell, Bronagh felt as though she had been punched in the gut when she spied the half empty whiskey bottle setting on the desk in front of Tom.

"Oh Tom" she softly murmured and tears formed in her eyes.

Trying to compose herself, she took a deep breath and wiped her hand across her cheek. Her silk slippers made no sound on the cold tile floor as she slowly crept across the room until she was standing beside him.

"Tom" she said softly.

Not getting any response she knelt beside him, her hand rubbing his left arm as she again called his name.

He slowly turned his glassy eyes towards her but it took some seconds for him to register it was her and when he finally did he quickly turned his face away.

"What's happened Tom?"

"It was a lie. It was all a lie" he mumbled.

Her forehead creased as she tried but failed to comprehend what he was talking about. "What was a lie Tom?"

"It wasn't my imagination when I saw her. It wasn't a ghost. It was her." He groaned and closed his eyes.

Still kneeling beside him, holding his arm, she calmly asked "When you saw who?"

"Her" he said as he swiped a newspaper page off the desk and threw it in the air. Then reaching for the whiskey bottle he took a long swig before sitting it down so loudly on the desk Bronagh blinked her eyes fearing the bottle would shatter.

Bronagh stood up and picked up the paper from where it had landed.

"The picture. Look at the picture" he yelled.

Still puzzled, she looked at the picture of a young woman smiling at two men standing beside her. Bronagh's eyes widen as she read _Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham …_

"They lied to me" Tom once again groaned. "It was all a lie."

* * *

Roland Quirk set down the report he had received from his man in Dublin.

He wasn't sure why he felt this way, it wasn't the first time he'd have to give disappointing news to a client but there was something about her, her earnestness, that made this so much more difficult. She still had never confided in him why she wanted to find this Tom Branson but he could certainly guess as to why.

* * *

Bronagh stood in front of the window looking out into the darkness while tears streamed down her face. It had taken some work but she had gotten him undressed him and put him to bed after giving him several cups of strong coffee to drink.

 _They were standing in the workshop in the back garden of his mother's house. The cradle Tom had beautifully restored stood on the workbench and she was running her hand down the smoothly sanded edges._

" _It's beautiful Tom." Tears glistened in her eyes. It was the first gift she'd received for the baby._

 _Tom reached out and put his hand over hers. "Bronagh" his voice was soft and gentle._

" _I don't have much to offer you and the babe. But I can offer you my name."_

 _She raised her head and looked at him. "We can go to America as a family Bronagh."_

" _But-" she started but he took his hand and began to gently caress her cheek._

" _It's not the same as what I felt for Sybil. But love comes in many forms Bronagh and in my own way I do love you._

It hadn't been the most romantic of proposals but she had been deeply touched by it not only for herself but for the child she was carrying.

She had feared for the stigma her child would carry. Bastard was such an ugly word and in Ireland … she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. If she had stayed in Ireland she probably would have married Tom for in her way she too loved him. But Uncle Carrick had offered her a way out, she'd have a job something she probably couldn't have found in Ireland and no one in America need know of her past. Just like Tom, Uncle Carrick had offered her and her child a future.

Bronagh looked back at Tom who was now fast asleep. She had known in her heart that Tom would never feel for her or anyone else for that matter what he had felt for Sybil. Satisfied that he'd sleep it off, she walked to the bedroom door pausing to take one last long look at him. If she were honest with herself she knew that was really why she hadn't accepted his proposal in Ireland. She hadn't been ready then to be second best.

She walked next door to her bedroom.

* * *

Sybil sat in her bedroom staring out the window. _I'm afraid the news from Ireland might be unexpected._ She had been sitting there for hours. _He's come to New York but with a wife and baby._ She didn't hear her grandmother knock on her bedroom door. _Wife._ She hadn't shed a tear. _Baby._ She felt numb.

* * *

Tom stood at the window of his bedroom staring out at the street. He thought of how colorful the view had been the first time he'd looked out this window. It had been early October and the leaves on the maple tree planted just to the left of the steps leading up to the house had been an array of reds and yellows. Now the branches which reached as high as his window were bare, a stark reminder that it was still the dead of winter.

He heard her footsteps on the hallway floor.

"Tom" It was funny how much one word could convey – surprise, worry, suspicion.

He didn't want to turn around and face her for he was ashamed of what he had done. He had betrayed her kindness, her trust, her love.

"Tom" she said it again only with a bit of panic in her voice as she had noticed the half-filled suitcase lying open on his bed "What are you doing?"

 **A/N: Well now you know about Tom and Bronagh. I haven't been coy about whether or not they were married because I wasn't sure myself. When I conceived of this story (and it was the second one I thought of but have waited until now to actually write it) I had them married. But somehow I got off track from my original idea - for example I never originally had Sybil going to the Alps or Tom sending the necklace to Mrs. Hughes - and wasn't sure how to get back on track to my original story idea. Since I haven't gotten back on that original track I am thinking of posting it as an alternate version if there is an interest in that - it would start from when I got off track.**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: As always thanks for the reviews. I have spent days sitting at my computer staring at the screen trying to write parts of this chapter - specifically the section on Sybil and Martha. The good news is that a lot of the next chapter is written!**

Despite Bronagh's question or maybe it was because of her tone, an odd mixture of bewilderment, apprehension and concern, Tom remained immobile in front of his bedroom window with his back towards her staring blindly out the window. It had been two days since he had sought solace in the bottom of a bottle; that he had tried to drink himself into oblivion. Even though he knew that doesn't really make one forget and after one gets through the fatigue, nausea, dizziness and in his case pounding headaches, the matter he sought to forget was still there.

"When I saw that photograph in the newspaper I didn't think of how wonderful it was that she's alive" his words were almost a whisper.

"Is that it … you … you're going to try and find her?" Bronagh didn't know why but she felt as if she had been slapped.

Although he still didn't turn around to face her, Tom subtlety moved his head from side to side. "Why would I want to find her after what she did?"

He finally turned to face Bronagh. "I love …" he swallowed as his eyes blinked "loved … her so much. How could they do it? To let me believe she was dead. How could _**she**_ do it to me?"

He paused once again as if trying to remain composed.

"How could I have been so wrong … how couldn't I see that" his words were lost in a sob. "How could I have been such a fool?"

Bronagh's heart ached at the sight of him seeing the despair clearly etched across his features. What could she say to him? Then, in an instant she clearly saw in her mind a scene from only a few months ago when it was Tom who consoled her.

"Tom as a wise man said to me not too long ago. You're not a fool for loving someone even when it is someone not deserving of your love."

Tom looked down at the framed photograph of Bronagh, Cian, and himself that he held in his hands. It had been taken on an outing to an apple farm north of the city on a warm fall day with the bluest of skies. Even though the photograph was in black and white, Tom saw Bronagh's light brown hair gleaming in the sun's rays and the sparkle in her eyes as she handed a smiling toothless Cian, his little hands waving in the air, to him. Carrick had bought himself the latest model of camera and had taken what seemed like hundreds of photographs of his new family and this particular photograph was a favorite of Tom's for he loved how Carrick had been able to capture their evident happiness.

His sight lingered on the photograph before he gently rubbed his fingertip across the image of Bronagh's lovely smiling face. She wasn't a breathtaking beauty like Sybil; Bronagh's beauty was more quiet, the kind of beauty that sorta snuck up on you and caught you unaware.

"Tom?" He closed his eyes at the sound of her voice so full and rich with her Irish lilt. Taking a deep sigh, he brought the framed photograph to his chest and held it there while he looked at her.

Bronagh gestured to the empty drawer hanging open on the chest and then to the suitcase. "Then what Tom … what are you're doing?"

"I feel all I've done lately is disappoint the people I love." Tom glanced from his suitcase to Bronagh and then once again to the suitcase.

"Ma was so proud of me getting the job with the newspaper." He shook his head and smirked "I was so proud of me" before his voice became softer "and then I threw it all away."

"Tom you were-"

Tom turned to face her and shook his head. He was embarrassed that he had been in no condition to handle his duties at the printing shop these last two days. "Carrick offered me his home, a job, his friendship because he thought-"

"Tom-"

"And you Bronagh ... you brought me back from the brink … you gave me the will to live and the chance to start again … you …" he felt ashamed as he looked into her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Felt ashamed of those nights he had come to her bed. Felt ashamed that she knew he would never love her the way he had loved Sybil. That what he felt for her would never be that heart stopping, all encompassing … he shuddered at the thought. I'll never love like that again. But love comes in many forms and I do love this kind, gentle lass before me.

"How can I stay here?" he pleaded.

"And so what is your plan?" she demanded.

He looked away from her as he slightly shrugged his shoulders. "I am truly a lost man."

"Oh Tom" Bronagh walked towards him until she was close enough to lay her hand on his arm. "You mustn't talk or even think like that."

"Tom Branson" her voice no longer so soft "you are a good man who's been through something terrible. Something that no one …" her voice faded as she looked away.

She turned back to face him, her eyes, no longer shimmering with unshed tears, focused on his face. "I needed a lifeline almost as much as you did. I had lost my job, my home … my own family turned their backs on me. You never made me feel ashamed or judged me. You gave me hope and love when I needed it." She smiled at him, it wasn't one of those beguiling smiles of Sybil's that always caused his heart to flutter but one of those warm smiles that always made him feel so comfortable. And since his youngest days he had always felt comfortable in her company.

She reached for the framed photograph and took it from him.

Holding it in her hands she looked down at it and smiled. Tom looked at her, a sly smile crossing his handsome face. "It's a wonderful photograph" he spoke. "Even more it was a wonderful day."

"Aye." Her eyes sparkled as she too recalled that warm fall day, the air perfumed with the smell of freshly pressed apple cider, she and Tom filling two baskets with apples they plucked from the trees.

' _Don't you think you're getting a bit carried away Tom?"_

" _One can't have too many apples Bronagh. There's pies and cakes and applesauce and applebutter to make."_

" _And just who are you planning on having make all those pies and cakes and things?"_

 _He grinned at her, that goofy grin that reminded her of the little boy he had been. "I'll help"_

 _She smiled back at him. "You better be prepared to peel and slice and dice and scour pans."_

" _Of course" he heartily replied. "I'll even buy my own apron!"_

"Just look at how much Cian has grown since then" she laughed.

Her laugh faded as she looked up at him. "That wise man also said to me we can't help who we fall in love with. Sometimes our heart wins out over our brain.

He blinked his eyes and smiled weakly.

"I've never regretted one moment with you." Her words took him by surprise.

"I think this belongs here" she said as she set the frame back on the nightstand bedside his bed. "Just like you do Tom."

* * *

When she entered the small parlor, Martha was happy to see Sybil was there, dressed in her nursing uniform, munching on a piece of toast. Judging from the crumbs on the plate in front of her, Sybil was just finishing her breakfast.

"Well it's good to see you up and about" Martha exclaimed as she took her seat opposite her granddaughter. "I take it this means you're going to work at the health clinic this morning."

Sybil took another sip of her tea before looking at her grandmother. "I thought I'd go a bit early today since I …" she looked sheepishly down at her plate, her voice fading "well since I didn't go on my last shift."

"Sybil" Martha began before realizing that for once she wasn't sure what to say something which surprised not only Martha but would surprise most of those who knew her. Although she loved her granddaughter and certainly enjoyed having her living here, Martha realized she barely knew the young woman. It was, thought Martha, one of the disadvantages of having your daughter living on the other side of the ocean and that was a situation she had no one to blame but herself.

When Cora turned eighteen it was in vogue for rich young American girls to go to England to find a husband. Martha had pushed her young daughter into traveling to England with the result being Cora raising a family far away and month long visits once a year or so hadn't allowed deep bonds to develop between Martha and her granddaughters. Of the three girls Martha always thought Sybil seemed most like Cora: sweet-tempered, caring and kind so unlike Martha herself she was ashamed to admit. As a young child Sybil, quite unlike her sisters, was rambunctious, curious, and lively. Mary had always had an acerbic tongue much like Violet Crawley and Edith too prickly but Sybil had been good-natured. Yet the child that had been quite open in her emotions had become more guarded and stoic as she aged which Martha found so common in the English aristocracy.

Despite Sybil's reticence, Martha decided to plow on. "I don't know if this has anything to do with why you came here." Sybil cast her eyes downward as her grandmother spoke. "Or if it's something new but I'd like to help." Her voice had an uncommon gentleness to it.

Martha thought for a moment that Sybil was going to break out in tears yet when she finally raised her head to look at her grandmother her eyes were glassy but there were no tears falling. "Oh Gran it is so sweet of you to offer and I do so appreciate it" her voice began to falter but she offered a sweet smile to Martha as she reached out across the table to touch Martha's hand.

Sybil closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she began speaking again her voice was stronger. "I do wish you could do something but there's nothing you or I or anyone else can do. It's resolved. Not how I wanted but there's nothing that anyone can do to change it."

* * *

Roland Quirk halted just inside the doorway of the grand entrance to the Fifth Avenue apartment building. Of course he hadn't escaped the notice of the ever alert concierge who from his perch behind the marble desk stared at him in expectation. Roland hadn't stopped in awe or amazement of the large rectangular foyer with its marble tiled floor and walls, large marble columns that soared to high ceilings decorated with feet of ornate cornices with edgings of gilt, that made the room seem like a museum setting rather than a foyer in an apartment building. No it was a rather sudden apprehension of whether or not he should call on Sybil Crawley. _Lady_ Sybil Crawley he quickly reminded himself although the young lady herself had never used her title with him.

Sybil might have thought Roland had closed her case when he had delivered the news from Ireland regarding Tom Branson yet she had hired him to find Tom Branson and Roland felt he had an obligation to do so until, and unless, all leads were pursued. Only then he thought would he close the case even if the man had not been found.

Occasionally a lead can come in the most unexpected circumstances and that is what had happened in the curious case of the missing Tom Branson. Sybil Crawley had described him as a journalist (that he was a very short term journalist Roland only learned later from his Irish source) and so Roland had contacted the New York newspapers in pursuit of finding him but none of the papers had such a person on staff or even on freelance status. Then one night last week at home, when Roland had settled into his comfortable lounger, a glass of brandy on his side table, to catch up on his reading of several magazines, he had found an interesting article on motor cars and their effect on changing society. He had found the article so thought provoking that he took the time to note the author and, much to his amazement, found it was a Tom Branson.

Whether or not this was the Tom Branson Sybil Crawley was searching for Roland could not be sure without doing some further investigation. Since the article had described Branson as a freelance writer, Roland contacted the magazine, on the pretext of considering hiring Mr. Branson for writing an article, and within days found himself meeting Mr. Branson in a very elegant townhouse on the upper east side. The house was a most surprising place considering the rather lowly origins of the Branson Irish family home that he had only so recently left.

"May I help you sir?"

The request from the concierge startled Roland from his inner ramblings. He noted the man was now standing beside his marble perch with both his stance and his voice leaving no doubt he was a force to be reckoned with.

Yet Roland stood fast as if his shoes were glued to the floor. Should he just turn around and leave and let things stand as they were?

* * *

In Dublin Claire Branson was performing her morning routine of dusting her dining room and front parlor when there was a knock on her front door.

"Mary!" she exclaimed in opening the door and seeing her neighbor Mary O'Donnelly from three houses down standing on her doorstep. "I didn't know you had come back."

"Just last night." Mary O'Donnelly had always been slender but now she looked so thin as if the merest of wind could blow her away.

She held out an envelope. "I have something for you Claire that was mistakenly left at my house."


	24. Chapter 24

Roland Quirk was shown into the large formal parlor to wait for Sybil. _Lady_ Sybil he quickly reminded himself. The room was quite grand in size with a two foot wide intricately carved cornice that curved up onto the high ceiling and opulently furnished. Yet it was the tall windows overlooking Central Park that drew his attention for it was a treat to be able to look out at the park from so high up and with most of the trees still barren he had a grand view.

He was surprised that he could see the cast iron Bow Bridge, a pedestrian walkway that crossed over The Lake and one of his favorite places to walk in the park. Turning his gaze towards the left he could even see the Angel of the Waters, the eight foot high bronze statue of a female winged angel that sat atop the Bethesda Fountain. In a few weeks when the trees were once again full with leaves he doubted if either would be so visible. He thought how wonderful it would be to have this view every day, to watch the seasons slowly change through the varying colors of the park's trees and plants.

But he reminded himself he wasn't here for the view.

In fact he wasn't really sure why he had come here. From his viewpoint his meeting with Tom Branson hadn't really gone that well. Roland prided himself on his questioning skills honed through years working for the War Department and then in heading own private detective agency but somehow that skill had evaporated with Mr. Branson. Most of his work involved tracking stolen property or trade secrets and the occasional government work. The cases where he sought people usually involved a wayward son or daughter or long lost heirs or tracing people who had immigrated and lost contact with their relatives back home. In those cases he didn't have to conceal why he suddenly showed up at their door.

His search for Tom Branson didn't fit into any of those scenarios. In fact he could only surmise as to why Lady Sybil Crawley wanted to find the Irishman. Roland guessed that Branson had quickly realized his story of wanting to possibly hire him for a writing assignment was a ruse. Yet Roland did come away with the feeling that this was the right Tom Branson.

"Mr. Quirk?" From her tone it was obvious that Sybil was surprised Roland was here.

* * *

Roland wasn't much of a drinker, he had declined Lady Sybil's offer of whiskey or scotch settling instead for a cup of tea, but upon leaving the grand Fifth Avenue apartment house he longed for a bar. One of those old fashioned bars where the walls were dark wood paneling and the room smelled faintly of cigars, where a high wooden bar ran the length of the room and among the many bottles of liquor on the shelves behind the bar were twenty year old whiskeys. With New York now in the throes of prohibition such bars were illegal so instead Roland decided to walk across Central Park to his home on the west side.

Winter hadn't quite left its grip on the city for the air was brisk but the sun was shining brightly. Roland pulled the collar of his woolen coat up around his neck and he set off for his walk. His route took him on the pathways he had seen from the window of the Levinson apartment. He stopped on the Bow Bridge and looked back at the tall apartment building although he couldn't be sure of the actual window he had so recently stood in front of.

"Did he seem happy?" Her question played over and over again in his mind.

She had sat quietly, her face revealing no emotions, as he had told her of finding Tom Branson. He thought he detected a slight trembling of her hands as she took the magazine containing Tom's article. She ran her index finger across Tom's name and smiled as she read the title of his article.

"Of course he'd write about motor cars" she said quietly but there was a faint smile on her face.

"Why motor cars?" Roland had been puzzled why motor cars would seem so logical to her.

She had looked directly at him and he thought there was a twinkle in her eyes. "He loves cars" she had said quite matter-of-factly as if that should explain everything.

Then she had surprised him by asking if Tom was working as a chauffeur. Although she offered no further admissions other than Tom had once been employed as a chauffeur, Roland suddenly had an inkling of the possible connection between this aristocratic young woman and the Irishman.

"Did he seem happy?"

Roland thought of the man who had greeted him with a smile and a firm handshake. He saw a man comfortable with his surroundings. He saw a gentleness as Tom had cradled the crying baby in his arms, his soothing voice and gentle patting of the baby's back lulling the child into a broad grin and then laughter.

Tom had continued to hold the child on his lap as his and Roland's conversation progressed. The little boy would glance up at Tom, his bright blue eyes gleaming and a broad smile on his face, as he reached his little arms for Tom's chin or ear and Tom would smile back at him. It was a smile that Roland imagined could have easily captured Sybil's heart.

"Did he seem happy?"

Yes Roland had told her. He had seemed very happy.

* * *

After a period of repeatedly teasing the coming of spring with one warm sunny day followed by days of gloomy overcast skies and chilling rain then beginning that process over again, it seemed as if spring had finally come to stay. This was now the fourth sunny day in a row and the city had finally awoken from the grayness of winter. It seemed that overnight the city was brightened by splashes of color, pinks and purples, reds and oranges, blues and bright whites, from flowering daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips that were planted all over the city. Not to be outdone by the beauty of such flowering bulbs, some of the trees, most notably the crabapple, cherry, and redbuds, were now awash in shades of white, pink and red blossoms.

As always, spring is a time of renewal and just like the trees and plants around her Sybil also felt a sense of renewal. She had entered the new year with hopes that had been so thoroughly crushed in the deep winter. She now knew that she had to chart a new course for her life, that the future she had envisioned, a life with Tom, was gone, was now out of reach. But first she had one small mission to do.

Sybil's footsteps slowed as she neared the corner. It seemed so ironic that her months of searching would end here on this quiet tree lined street within a mile or so of her grandmother's flat. After crossing the side street, she stopped on the corner not only to catch her breath, for she could feel her heart racing a bit not from exhaustion but rather anticipation, but to also take note of her surroundings. From here, she had a good view of the house she was looking for. Although built in the style so popular in this neighbor, the cream-colored house stood out from its gray stone neighbors. With large bay windows on either side of the wide dark mahogany front door, the house was quite elegant looking. The long planter box on the right side of the front porch filled with colorful blooms gave the house a splash of color as well as a welcoming touch.

She knew the city well enough to have been surprised, as much as Roland Quirk had been, by the address. So close to Central Park and Park Avenue, a quiet street of graceful and elegant townhouses, it wasn't a likely area for budding journalists or former chauffeurs to call home. Roland had been bewildered when Sybil had asked if Tom was working as a chauffeur. She was pleased that Tom hadn't had to fall back on his former occupation but had moved forward.

Roland told her that a check of property records showed the house belonging to Carrick McGrann and that further delving into Mr. McGrann uncovered an Irish immigrant who owned a printing business and a stationary store as well as numerous buildings and land throughout the city. Tom had never talked about any relatives in America let alone a wealthy one, so Sybil assumed this Mr. McGrann was a relative or acquaintance of Tom's wife.

Sybil had deliberately hidden her long dark hair under her dark green cloche hat. With the hat pulled down to her eyebrows, she doubted she was recognizable especially from across the street yet the hat with its matching spring coat were fashionable enough that she did not look out of place on this street. Although there was little motor car traffic on the street, there were a few pedestrians so Sybil thought she wouldn't attract any attention as she slowly strolled a couple of feet behind two older well dressed women on the pavement opposite Tom's house. She passed the house and then paused just before the next corner so that she could take another good long look at the house without appearing to focus on it.

It took a few moments for Sybil to realize the front door had opened and a man holding a baby walked out onto the small porch. Her eyes widen as she realized it was Tom slowly walking down the steps. Her heart racing, she leaned back against the stone pillar, part of fencing in front of a house, as if the pillar would keep her from falling down.

Tom! She wanted to scream his name, to run to his outstretched arms; instead she stood there silently watching as he turned without looking towards her and walked down the pavement in the direction from which she had come. It took her a few moments to gather her wits and to begin to stealthily follow him.

She followed him to Central Park. The hustle and bustle of the city could be tempered by the enormous grounds of Central Park which offered a country-like respite. Walking on one of the park's many footpaths whether winding through dense woods or open fields or around one of the lakes Sybil could imagine she was back at her childhood haunts of Downton.

Once they reached the park, Tom's gait slowed as he pointed out squirrels to the wriggling child in his arms. When Tom took a seat on a bench, Sybil stayed behind a tree from where she could easily watch him without being detected. Bobbing the little boy on his knees, Tom spoke quietly to him while the little boy clapped his hands. She couldn't hear what Tom was saying but the peals of laughter from the child made Sybil smile.

Sybil leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes. She wouldn't think of what might have been. She felt no anger or bitterness towards him; after all he thought she was dead. Any anger and bitterness she did feel was directed at her family who had betrayed both her and Tom. She would instead think of how handsome and healthy Tom looked and how happy he seemed. Happiness. She opened her eyes and looked once again at him and smiled. That's all she wanted for him, for him to be happy.

"Have a wonderful life Tom" she quietly said before turning and walking back out of the park.

* * *

Tom was enjoying this afternoon of sunshine with Cian in the park when he felt a sudden chill as if someone was watching him. He looked around but saw no one who seemed to be paying him any attention. To his right there was a couple walking towards him with their arms wrapped around each other seeming too interested in each other to even notice him. To his left there were the two old ladies who had smiled at him as they passed and further down the pathway he glimpsed the back of a woman in a green coat and hat.

He took a deep breath. He had felt a bit unsettled ever since that man had come to the house on the pretense of considering hiring him for a writing assignment. Tom's initial delight at being considered for additional writing work was quickly dashed as the man seemed to be prying into his life rather than deciding whether to hire him as a writer. Tom wasn't sure why he had bristled at the man's questions and he had refused to answer many of them. Instead he tried turning the conversation back to what type of writing or article did the man have in mind.

Maybe the work he was doing on behalf of Ireland's independence was making him a bit paranoid. It was strange that now he was an ocean away from Ireland, he was involved in the movement for Irish independence. He not only attended meetings of a couple of groups working for Irish independence, he was writing articles for both underground and legitimate newspapers. But why would that man have been interested in Tom? Such work was perfectly legal, at least that which Tom was involved in was.

Cian's wriggling made Tom focus on the present. "I'm just being silly" he said out loud to the squirming little boy.

* * *

Claire Branson sat at the small kitchen table where she had been sitting long enough that her strong steaming cup of black tea had become cold. At this time of early morning, the kitchen was mostly bathed in dark shadows with only the merest glints of light beginning to foreshadow a rising sun. The letter that had caused her to toss and turn most of the night lay on the table with the dark ink of the beautifully hand written address in such contrast to the creamy sand colored envelope.

The visit of her neighbor Mary O'Donnelly had been a welcomed surprise while the letter she brought had been an even bigger surprise although Claire would probably not use the word welcomed as its descriptor. Mary had away from home for probably six months or more tending to her daughter in Galway who had given birth to her third child in less than three years and had suffered severe childbirth complications.

"My nephew that fool should have brought you this letter when it arrived rather than tossing it into the pile with the rest of my mail" Mary had said by way of apology for the letter's late arrival. "No excuse he didn't notice the address was wrong. But then that boy's never made use of the brain God gave him."

At first, noting the envelope's return address Claire had been flummoxed for she didn't know any Mrs. Levinson in New York, in fact she didn't know anyone in New York except for Tom and Bronagh. Then, her hands trembled opening the obviously expensive envelop fearing that somehow this Mrs. Levinson had bad news about Tom.

 _Dear Mrs. Branson_

 _I know this letter will be a shock to you, and to Tom, as I have just learned of the horrible and unspeakable action that my father has taken. Until last night I had no idea that my father had sent a telegram stating I had died from that wretched Spanish Flu …_

Reading those words so startled Claire she had fallen onto the sofa.

Now as she sat in the kitchen of her small Dublin house in the stillness of the early morning, Claire pondered as to what she should do about Sybil's letter. Had Lady Sybil really no idea of what her father had done? Or had she changed her mind about Tom and coming to Ireland and then had regrets and changed her mind once again?

The news of Sybil's supposed death had almost ruined Tom. What would happen if he now learned that she was alive?

Claire was grateful that Tom had rebuilt his life and she knew much of this was due to Bronagh. From the letters she received separately from each of them she knew that they were building a successful life in New York. There was no mistaking the affection that each had for the other and Claire had high hopes that this affection would lead to marriage. It would be thought Claire a much more suitable marriage for Tom than one to Lady Sybil.

Claire fingered the envelope. Could she in good conscience withhold this letter from Tom?


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews of the last chapter.**

As the train began its slow crawl away from the Downton railway station platform Tom remained standing with his head leaning through the open window, his arm raised in a static wave, watching Sybil slowly fade away as the train picked up speed. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be one of his happiest days for he was returning home, home to his family, home to Ireland and she was supposed to be sitting here beside him not standing at the end of the station platform watching his train slowly disappear.

 _Since Lavinia … I … I can't come with you today. I can't leave until I know Mama will be all right."_

" _I swear Tom I haven't changed my mind about us. As soon as Mama is on the mend I'll leave for Ireland._

It had now been one year since that scene had played out at the Downton Railway Station and the spring of 1920 found them living lives that neither of them could have imagined that morning at the Downton Railway Station. During that year, in very different ways, their lives had been shattered yet each had picked up the pieces and began anew albeit without the other.

* * *

After several days of seemingly endless rain, Tom woke on Sunday morning to a surprisingly sunlit bedroom. He had been so tired that he had practically fallen into bed the night before without bothering to close the curtains or shut the window and was quickly lulled to sleep by the soothing patter of rain hitting the street and pavement below.

It took him a moment or two to realize the sunlit filled room meant it wasn't early morning. Turning to the bedside table he was astonished to see it was just after eight o'clock for he couldn't remember when he had last slept this late. He fell back against the down-filled pillow and as he stated at the ceiling he wondered if maybe, just maybe, Bronagh was right, he had been working too much.

He was passionate about his writing, taking every writing job that was offered in hopes of establishing himself as a journalist. All the while he was still overseeing the printing shop and doing any odd chores, whether at the printing shop, the stationery shop or the house, that required mechanical skills.

 _You bury yourself away in your office every evening. When's the last time you've taken Cian out to the park?_ _Or when's the last time you've just done something for fun?_

He stood up and walked over to window. The sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The air was warm enough to announce that summer was approaching. It was a perfect day for being outdoors.

Since Carrick was using a taxi to take him to his Sunday lunch with old friends, Tom and Bronagh, with Cian nestled in her arms, hitched a ride with him to the park entrance on East 72nd St. As befitting one of the first warm and sunny Sundays of the year, there were crowds of people walking and even a few pedaling bikes and many others just sitting on the grass wherever they could find a spot. The crowds thinned as Tom and Bronagh wandered along one of the winding pedestrian paths lined with shrubs and trees whose colorful blooms were already fading and lilacs and azaleas that were just beginning to bud. Cian sitting in his wicker baby stroller began wriggling as he spied squirrels shimming up trees. It was, thought Tom, time to find a grassy spot to spread their blanket.

The afternoon passed in relaxing peacefulness. After indulging in a lunch of cold chicken, boiled eggs, a cream cheese and stuffed olives spread to slather on slices of freshly baked bread, and tiny apple tarts washed down with cider, Tom might have even nodded off. Cian, who had perfected crawling and had moved on to trying to stand up, found a prone Tom a perfect climbing apparatus while Bronagh looked on in delight at the antics of her son.

Eventually it was time to begin the long walk home but instead of walking back through the park, they made their way towards the pedestrian entrance on Fifth Avenue just past East 76th Street. Always eager to get Bronagh's insight he told her about the run-down housing he had visited as part of her research for his article on neglectful landlords taking advantage of poor immigrants in lower Manhattan.

"Yesterday I visited a health clinic that serves so many of them. It was awful Bronagh. Not the clinic but the patients … all the ones I saw were Irish Bronagh … so many of them sick from the unsanitary conditions of their housing. The head nurse Mrs. Cower said their poor diets, little or no fresh fruit and vegetables, contribute to make things even worse."

Tom stopped walking as they came out of the park and onto the pavement running along Fifth Avenue. "I wonder how many of them thought they would come here to live in such squalor."

The pavement, separated from the park by a low stone wall, was flanked with tall trees whose leafy green branches often formed a canopy over it. Across the broad avenue the street was lined with stone mansions and multi-story apartment buildings whose architectural style made Tom think of the grand buildings of Dublin.

"Even in the worst of my childhood it wasn't as bad as what I've seen these last few days."

"It's good you're exposing these things. Those landlords should be held accountable" Bronagh spoke forcefully. "They shouldn't be allowed to let their buildings in such poor conditions."

They walked on in silence for a few minutes before Bronagh stopped and reached out her hand to Tom's arm.

"I'm glad to see you so enthusiastic Tom. Even though you didn't voice it I know the work you were doing when we first came here wasn't what you wanted but now with your writing you … you seem as if you've found your calling."

She looked down into the stroller and her sleeping son. Gently stroking the top of his head she said "Every mother wants the best for her child."

"Do you think there's something we can do … for those children at that health clinic? Maybe supply some fruit every week?

* * *

Sybil stood at the rail of the hurricane deck of the steamship looking out at the vast expanse of the ocean that surrounded the ship. Despite the pins that tightly secured her new wide-brimmed straw hat to her hair, her hand rested on the top of her head to ensure the hat did not go flying off her head and out into the dark green water. The cool breeze that fluttered her skirt was a welcome relief after the hot thick air of Savannah that had made her want to constantly wipe her forehead.

The last land she had seen was yesterday afternoon as the ship had made its way down the Savannah River and out into the Atlantic Ocean. She had sat in one of the deck chairs fascinated by the passing scenery of both the flat barrier islands covered with tall live oaks draped in gray Spanish moss just beyond the strips of dark sand at the water's edge and the tidal marshes with their foot high slender grasses that waved in the ocean breezes. She marveled at how this coastline was so different from the dramatic seaside cliffs of England and Ireland. As the ship steamed out into the ocean the water had changed from the murky brown of that marshy coast to the dark green that now surrounded the ship.

Savannah had been the first place in America outside of New York and Newport that Sybil had visited (and she only had vague recollections of Newport since those visits had been in her childhood). The ever curious Sybil was delighted when Charles had asked if she'd like to accompany him there to appraise the family estate his old university roommate, William Dywer, had recently inherited. After university William had embarked on a law career in Boston and had no desire to return to city that had been the home of the Dwyer family since the late 1700s.

Sybil found the contrasts between New York City and Savannah staggering. With little more than one percent of the population of New York, Savannah had none of the skyscrapers of New York indeed the tallest building was a mere fifteen floors. New York was a city of hustle and bustle while the people of Savannah moved at a much slower pace. While Sybil thought the people of New York looked towards the future, those in Savannah seemed much more enamored with their past. When Sybil thought of war she thought of the Great War but in Savannah talk of war had meant the War Between the States which although her knowledge of America's history was rather scant she thought the south had lost.

It was a beautiful city of cobblestone streets lined with fine mansions surrounding the numerous garden-like squares the city was famous for. The squares, crossed with a patchwork of walkways separated by patches of grass filled with trees and plants like azaleas currently ablaze in an array of pinks, reds, and purples, and those tall live oaks with their eerie looking moss hanging in long clusters, provided a shady respite.

The Dwyer house, a four story Greek Revival mansion (yes she had become familiar with the various architectural styles) built in early 1800 was one of the grandest in Savannah. Although of course it dwarfed in comparison to Downton Abbey it was none the less an impressive house with its symmetrical curving stairs leading up to the two story portico supported by eight square columns and the wide front entry door flanked by glass on each side and topped with a two foot high glass transom window. From inside the front entrance one could look down the wide hall that ran the length of the house and see through the glass doors to the back garden.

They had stayed in the house with William and his wife who had made the trip down to Savannah the week before Sybil and Charles arrived. Sybil's bedroom opened onto the veranda that ran the width of the second floor. Cooled by ceiling fans, the veranda had been a perfect place to sit in one of the white wicker rocking chairs and look out over the back garden. Enclosed by on the right side and back by brick walls and the on the left side by the two story brick building containing the old kitchen and former slave quarters, the garden contained both herbs and ornamental plants of which Sybil had become most fond of the saw palmetto and its clusters of leaves that looked like fans.

She and Charles had worked for more than a week cataloging the treasures acquired by the Dwyer family over a century. Some furniture and household goods and been brought from England when the family first came to Georgia in 1785 and settled on a rice plantation an hour south of the city. The family's wealth greatly expanded after they relocated to Savannah and moved into trading and shipping. Now some of those possessions collected over the years were in the cargo hold of this steamship destined for an auction house in New York. The bulkier items of furniture and paintings would soon follow on another ship.

Compared to the great ocean liners crossing the north Atlantic, The Ocean Steamship Company's _The City of Montgomery_ that plied up and down the Atlantic coast from New York to Bostonpaled in size yet it had been luxuriously decorated and furnished for its 130 first class passengers who made the two night journey. While many of her fellow passengers spent the afternoon resting in their staterooms, Sybil found her stateroom too confining and she much preferred sitting out on deck where she could smell the fresh salty air and feel the ocean breezes which became cooler the further north the ship traveled.

She had taken her magazines with the intention of spending the afternoon sitting in one of the comfy deck chairs shaded from the sun by the awning that ran the length of the deck and reading. She had made no more journeys to East 62nd St but since Roland Quirk had given her the magazine with Tom's article, Sybil bought each new issue in hopes of seeing more of Tom's writings. Although she began buying them in hopes of reading more from Tom, she found that she liked many of the magazine's articles and looked forward to each new issue.

Like many of the men onboard the ship, after lunch Charles had adjourned to the smoking room but soon found the conversations tedious and the poker games too costly. He decided a walk on the deck would be refreshing and much more interesting. After several rounds around the promenade deck he decided to head for his stateroom on upper deck. Rounding the corner he was surprised to see Sybil sitting in a lounge chair about halfway down the deck.

As she sat reading, he paused several yards from her and stared at her. He had worked with her for over six months now but still found her an enigma. She was hard working, diligent and eager to learn, all the traits he thought an assistant should have. She was pleasant and could easily charm even his most difficult clients. In conversations with her she was vocal in her political beliefs, most of which certainly surprised him causing him to wonder how the daughter of an English Earl had come to be so liberal in her politics.

But there was very little he actually knew about her for she rarely talked about herself or her background. He knew she had been a volunteer nurse during the Great War and it had been a condition of her taking the job with him that she could continue volunteering at a health clinic in lower Manhattan. Although she talked about her grandmother she never mentioned her family or why she had come to New York. Despite her easy laugh and engaging smiles, he often detected a bit of sadness about her and wondered if that had anything to do with her family. Then there was the curious situation of the very valuable objets d'art she had brought with her from England and the even more curious situation of her inquiring about hiring a private detective.

With his mind drifting to those issues it took him a minute or two to realize she had noticed him and was waving him over. There was a small table beside her and on the other side of it was another deck chair which he promptly sat down in as he said "The ocean breeze certainly makes it a bit nicer out here than Savannah was."

"I can't imagine what it must be like there in the summer" Sybil replied. Savannah in springtime was already hotter than Yorkshire in summer.

"But you did enjoy the trip?"

"I did" she nodded her head as she answered definitively in her husky voice. "I've never really been outside of New York City. The city was rather lovely and the house was quite different" she turned and looked at him "I mean so different from what I've seen in New York."

"And in England?"

She turned away from him and looked out to sea.

"I mean" Charles began trying not to sound like he was prying. "You appreciate the beauty of furniture or pieces of china or silver but you never seem in awe of such items. I know you're _Lady Sybil_ so I get the feeling that you've been surrounded by such fine things all your life."

She didn't respond instead continuing to stare straight ahead and Charles feared he had stepped out of bounds.

"I'm sorry I don't mean to pry" he said as he made to stand up.

"I am used to such things" she said quietly although she still didn't look at him instead remaining focus on the ocean. "But they're just things. I grew up on an estate in Yorkshire in a home with 60 bedrooms and nannies and governesses and servants and-" she took a deep breath "and surrounded by furniture, and oil paintings, and porcelain this and crystal that that have been in my family for centuries.

He had surmised she came from wealth but was astonished at the thought of a home with 60 bedrooms. He sat back into his chair and waited for her to continue but she was quiet for so long he feared she wouldn't continue.

"The Great War changed me. For the first time in my life I finally felt useful, I had a purpose, I had a reason to get up in the morning." She turned and looked at him "My family … my family wanted to go back to how it was before the war" she shook her head "but I … I couldn't … I …"

Once again she stopped talking and looked away from him.

"So what Sybil … what do you want?"

This time her answer came quickly and forcefully. "I want my independence. I want to decide what I do with my life."

"So you came to New York to start a new life?"

But she surprised him with her answer. "I came to New York because the man I wanted to marry was here-" And so with the floodgate finally opened, Sybil calmly told him about Tom and Ireland and the Spanish Flu. She told him of her family's betrayal. She told him of hiring his friend Roland Quirk to find Tom. She told him of Tom and his new family.

* * *

Claire Branson after wrestling with how to handle the long delayed letter from Sybil finally made her decision. It wasn't something that could be done by post; instead she would come to New York. Whether or not she would give the letter to Tom would depend on what she found in there.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Surprise! These scenes were written for the last chapter but I obviously decided to cut them. However, something the guest reviewer wrote made me reconsider that decision.**

Tom's revelations about the health clinic he had visited weighed heavily on Bronagh especially when she looked at her son who was so robust and healthy. The lack of fresh fruit and vegetables would never be an issue in his childhood. She had grown up poor but living on the farm there had always been food on the table whether from the family's small vegetable patch, the abundance of berries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, that grew wild, or fruit from the apple, pear, and cherry trees that dotted their land.

Nor had sanitation been an issue in her childhood. Her family home might have been small with the furniture well-worn but it was clean and warm in the winter with a peat fire and there was always clean water from the well. Her clothes were usually hand-me-downs and sometimes threadbare, her toys were things that her Pa could make from wood or from bits and bobs of this and that but she had fields to run in and trees to climb and a few precious books to read. When she thought of her childhood she thought it was a happy one.

Her son might not be living on a farm where he could spend the too rare glorious Irish sunny afternoons tromping around the fields or gorging on wild blackberries before filling a bucket with them knowing Ma would make a pie or tarts or even jam but he would have the whole of that marvelous Central Park full of grassy knolls and meadows and lakes to explore. Bronagh thought of how she'd buy him a bicycle when he was older. She was sure Tom would be able to teach him how to ride.

Sitting on the streetcar Bronagh was struck by the changing environment of the city as the streetcar wound its way down Broadway. The grand apartment buildings and elegant townhouses of her neighborhood gave way to the tall skyscrapers that housed commercial enterprises. She fascinated by how tall the buildings and remembered when Tom had taken her to Jonah Harwick's 35th floor office. She was a bit leery of the elevator ride but determined it was worth it after seeing the views from the office. It had been so clear that day they were able to see across Brooklyn and to the Atlantic Ocean beyond. She glimpsed that strange triangular building called the Flatiron Building as the streetcar skirted the lovely Madison Square. Further south the area became less prosperous looking with smaller buildings densely packed together.

Just off Broadway on a narrower side street, the health clinic occupied a wide two story brick building which looked as if it had once been a pleasant single family home. It was sandwiched between two taller and narrower buildings with stone facades that advertised a variety of business on each of their five floors. The ground floor of the clinic had two wide arched windows on either side of a brightly painted blue front door. On a small brass plague next to the door was etched _St. Margaret's Health Clinic._

The front door opened into what had once been the large square entrance foyer with a stairway leading to the second floor, a black and white tiled hallway leading further into the house and a large aged oak desk occupying the space just to the right of the door. Beside the desk the wall opened into a wide arched doorway and what Bronagh surmised had once been a front parlor and was now the waiting room with a mass of mismatched wooden chairs that looked as if they would have once been used around dining tables. The air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and camphor.

Sitting at the desk was a young girl in her late teens or maybe even twenty with a pleasant face who motioned for Bronagh to take a seat in one of the two chairs in the foyer while she continued talking to a woman holding a little redheaded girl that didn't look much older than Cian with another little girl of maybe two holding onto her mother's skirt. Both little girls had red sores across their pale faces and arms which Bronagh wasn't sure were rashes or bite marks. While the receptionist had a faint Irish lilt, the woman sounded as if she had just come from Tralee.

While Bronagh waited for the receptionist to deal with the woman and her children a woman dressed in a gray nursing uniform came down the hallway. She stopped next to the desk, offered a cheery smile to the woman, and patted the top of the baby's head.

Bronagh stared at the nurse knowing she had seen her before but couldn't quite place where. The dullness of the gray uniform couldn't hide that she was very pretty with bright blue eyes, pale pink full lips, smooth clear skin, and wisps of dark brown hair escaping from her white headdress.

"Nurse Crawley"

 _Crawley!_ Bronagh's eyes widened as she realized the woman standing not three feet from her was Tom's Sybil for she was the same woman in the framed photograph that Tom had placed on his nightstand in his tiny bedroom in the Branson Dublin house, the same photograph he had so lovingly cradled as he cried over her death.

At the sound of her name, she turned and looked up the stairwell to a woman similarly dressed standing about half-way down the stairs.

"Could you help with some suturing?"

"Of course I can" Nurse Crawley replied in a surprising husky voice that, despite the English accent, was both soothing and comforting and reminding Bronagh of warm honey. Nurse Crawley smiled at Bronagh as she passed her on her way to the stairwell.

Bronagh continued staring up the stairwell long after Nurse Crawley had disappeared from sight. It wasn't until the third or fourth time the girl at the desk said "Ma'am" that Bronagh realized she was talking to her.

"I'm sorry" Bronagh said as she stood up. "That nurse that just went up the stairs is her first name Sybil?"

"Yes" the girl nodded. "She's nurse Sybil Crawley. Do you know her?"

"I think I do. I'm just …" Bronagh stumbled "I'm just surprised to see her here. Has she worked here long?"

"She's been volunteering her for" the girl scrunched her face as if trying to recall "maybe six months now."

"Volunteering?"

"Unfortunately the clinic can't afford all the nursing help we need. We're quite lucky that someone like Sybil volunteers here. She worked as a nurse during the Great War so we're lucky to have some like her here."

Bronagh looked back up the stairwell as if willing Sybil to once again materialize.

"Are you also a nurse? Is that how you know Sybil?" Now the girl was curious as to why Bronagh was here since she didn't appear to be ill.

"No … I … I came here to …" Bronagh looked down at the floor and shuffled her feet nervously. "I'm sorry I didn't realize the time … I'll have to come back."

Fleeing out the front door Bronagh left behind a rather bewildered receptionist. She walked quickly to the front of the next building and leaned against its stone façade. Taking deep breaths she closed her eyes.

* * *

It had become their nightly ritual. Sybil and her grandmother would meet in the formal parlor an hour or so before dinner. Even on nights when one or the other had some engagement later in the evening they'd still meet here.

Martha, seated in her favorite lounge chair, raised her cocktail glass as Sybil entered the grand parlor. "Just freshly made" she announced as she took a sip of the Manhattan her current favorite drink.

Sybil sat down on the sofa and picked up the cocktail glass sitting in front of her on the coffee table and took a sip. "It's hard to know that prohibition is actually in effect."

"Seems like most people were quite sensible and stocked up while they could" Martha returned. "Although" she turned to look across the room at her new rosewood drinks bar cabinet "that's the last bottle of vermouth so we'll soon have to find another drink."

Martha set the magazine she had been reading on the coffee table drawing Sybil's attention to the mail that was laying there. Martha watched as Sybil noting the return address on the letter addressed to her left it lying there untouched. This, like all the previous letters, would sit there unopened and unread until Martha picked them up and put them in a box with all the other letters that had come for Sybil from Downton. She saved them hoping that one day Sybil would want to read them.

Although Sybil had been reticent on what had led to her estrangement from her family, the letters Martha received from Cora had been a bit more forthcoming although Martha still did not have the full picture. Instead of focusing on what had happened, Cora wrote of wanting to know what Sybil was doing, whether she was happy, had she made friends. There had also been the curious questions as to why Sybil had chosen to flee to New York.

"I also received a letter from Downton today." Martha plunged into the topic she thought Sybil needed to hear. "Mary is getting married."

Martha detected the slightest flicker of Sybil's shoulders and a tremor of her hand as she set her cocktail glass onto the coffee table but her face remained an impenetrable mask. Then surprising Martha Sybil stood up and walked to one of the windows looking out at Central Park.

"The groom is one-"

"Sir Richard Carlisle" Sybil interrupted her grandmother although she remained staring out the window.

"No" Martha bellowed "it's a … Matthew Crawley."

"Matthew!" Sybil whipped around to face her grandmother. "Matthew" she repeated again as if trying to make sense of it. "Mary is marrying Matthew?"

Martha noted the tears that had suddenly welled up in Sybil's eyes just before Sybil shook her head and turned away once more.

"Rather peculiar his name is also Crawley" Martha remarked. "But I take it you know this fellow."

Sybil took a deep breath before walking over to one of the large wingback chairs and leaned against it as if needing support to remain standing. "He's a distant cousin and Papa's heir."

Then in a voice so soft that Martha wasn't sure she heard right, Sybil mumbled "He's much better than Mary deserves."

"The wedding is next month. Haven't been over there since before the war so I think I'll go."

Keeping her head tilted downward as if suddenly finding the carpet so interesting Sybil made no reaction to Martha's announcement.

"You might consider coming with me Sybil. A wedding's a good time to make amends."

Sybil's head snapped up, the hint of tears replaced by eyes hardened into a cold deep blue, her beautiful face no longer an emotionless mask but etched with unmistakable anger. "Make amends!" she roared.

Her clenched fist slapped against the back of the chair. "You expect ME to make amends" Sybil thundered stunning Martha by her ferocity.

"After she cost me the man I love … she finally gets the man she's … she's …" As if her raised voice had drained her of all her energy, Sybil suddenly stopped talking. Then just as suddenly she ran out of the parlor and down the hall to her bedroom, slamming the bedroom door hard enough that Martha could hear it rattle from her seat in the parlor.

Martha was not one to shrink from confrontation. She waited ten minutes, long enough she thought for Sybil to settle down. She stood outside the closed bedroom door listening for sobs or even things being tossed around but there were no sounds coming from the other side of the door.

After three light raps on the door, Martha slowly opened it to find Sybil on the far side of the room huddled in a floral cushioned chair by the window. With her feet flat against the seat cushion, her arms wrapped around her bent knees, and her head lightly resting on her knees, Sybil sat staring out the window.

"Sybil darling" Martha called in a most uncharacteristic soft tone.

Sybil made no movement, no acknowledgement of her grandmother's presence. Undeterred Martha walked further into the spacious bedroom. She had decorated this room in soft yellows and greens with hints of deep red and thought the result had been a pretty and restful bedroom.

Martha slowly walked across the room. She reached out her arm and soothingly rubbed her hand up and down Sybil's back. Surprisingly Sybil didn't swat away Martha's hand. "I think you need to tell me the whole story."

Sybil rose from the chair and went to the tall chest. Opening the second drawer she carefully pulled out the envelope containing Tom's letter to Mrs. Hughes. Looking down at the creased envelope in her hands she began speaking softly as her index finger glided gently over the envelope. "His name is Tom. Of course they weren't happy because he was the chauffeur but he had gotten a job as a journalist in Ireland. But the morning we were to leave for Ireland I decided I had to stay behind until Mama recovered from the Spanish Flu."

Carefully taking the letter out of the envelope Sybil handed it to Martha.

* * *

Despite the early evening chill, Bronagh was outside on the terrace sitting in one of the two wooden Adirondack chairs that seemed out of place among the wrought iron chairs. Facing the back neighbor's house, the terrace offered no magnificent views. There wasn't even a view of the sun setting since it disappeared among the taller buildings in the distance.

But Bronagh hadn't come out here for the view rather she had come here to sit and think. As he often did after supper, Uncle Carrick was in the study playing with Cian while Tom had, she supposed, gone to his office on the third floor or maybe he was with Uncle Carrick and Cian.

Seeing Sybil had left her unsettled.

"Thought you might like a cuppa" Tom said as he handed her a steaming mug of tea. "Mind if I join you or would I be disturbing those deep thoughts of yours?"

She raised her brow as she looked at him.

"You seemed rather deep in thought there." He gave her one of those grins of his that always reminded her of a mischievous little boy.

But that image of a mischievous little boy was quickly replaced by one of Tom that afternoon he had found Sybil's photograph in the newspaper, the afternoon he found out she was alive, the afternoon he concluded she had lied to him. Bronagh looked over at Tom who had sat down beside her in the other Adirondack chair. He was gazing up at the sky as if searching for stars. But Bronagh saw not the Tom here beside her but the Tom that afternoon and that was an image of heartbreaking anguish.

He sensed she was looking at him. "So are you going to tell me what you're so deep in thought about?" he asked although his face was still tilted back looking at the sky. Several times during dinner he had caught her staring at him and she had then immediately averted her eyes. He knew something was troubling her.

 _What good will it do if I tell him?_ _Maybe some things are better left as they are._ "I was thinking about your Ma and Oonagh arriving Friday and all the things I want to show them."

He took a sip of his tea. Although he hardly thought Bronagh had been sitting here thinking about his mother and sister he wouldn't challenge her. "I'm glad they're coming but I can't figure out why Ma was so insistent about coming now."


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews of the last chapter. They made me realize how important those scenes I had discarded were so special thanks to the guest whose remarks prompted me to publish them.**

With a sigh Tom set the pencil down on his desk. He was having a hard time concentrating on editing his typewritten pages. He glanced at the square silver desk clock, a Christmas gift from Carrick, and noted that he had an hour before he'd need to leave for the piers. With another deep sigh he thought that maybe it was the imminent arrival of his mother that was preventing him from concentrating on his work.

Not that he wasn't happy that his mother was visiting but he still had a nagging feeling that this visit was more than just her desire to see him. After all, he had lived in England for years and she never made that, in comparison, short journey to visit him at Downton. But her letters had given no clue why she was so persistent in coming to New York now. And persistent she had been as he thought of her insistence rather than her request to visit.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted Tom from his thoughts on his mother. When he began writing in earnest he had taken over this unused room on the uppermost floor of the townhouse as his office. In a second hand shop he had found a walnut pedestal desk so ideal for his work with its large flat top roomy enough to spread out his papers and his typewriter. He had completed his office with a dark green leather wingback chair, a low three shelved glass fronted bookcase, and a matching file cabinet. Scattered about the room were a couple of framed photographs of him, Bronagh and Cian and two oil paintings of seascapes bought at a second hand store graced the long wall opposite his desk. Bronagh had picked out the bright floral curtains for the two wide windows which gave the room a needed spot of color among the beige and browns of the paint and furniture.

This floor had become his domain when he changed his bedroom to the room next to his office. His excuse had been that with spending more and more time writing into the wee hours of the night he might as well have his bedroom next to his office. In reality this was only partially true but he would never admit to anyone that he could no longer sleep in the room next to Bronagh's knowing that her bedroom door was closed to him. Not that he had regularly visited her bedroom; in fact in had only been a handful of times. Other than that first time on New Year's Eve which had been driven by the holiday's merriment and a touch of giddiness fueled by a bit of Carrick's whiskey laced punch it had been a matter of a need for comfort. Yet something had changed since that night that he had broken down over seeing Sybil's picture in the newspaper, something had changed in Bronagh.

Curious as to who was up here Tom rose from his chair and walked into the hallway that basically divided this upper floor into two identical halves with each half consisting of two large rooms separated by an adjoining bathroom. His mother and Oonagh would each have their own bedroom and share the bathroom while staying here. The hallway ended in a large closet and a narrow stairway that led to the attic. From the bedroom on the left, Tom heard Bronagh's voice softly singing an Irish tune. One of the things that had surprised him about Bronagh was her penchant for singing or humming as she went about her chores.

The two windows were open and the curtains were fluttering in the soft breeze and the room smelled faintly of roses. Tom smiled as he noted the large vase of white and peach colored roses on the dresser and a smaller vase of the peach colored roses on the nightstand by the bed.

"The room looks very pretty, very inviting" Tom spoke.

Bronagh turned from the dresser and smiled. "I hope your mother likes it."

"How could she not?" Tom answered. Looking at the arched headboard of rich mahogany and the matching dresser, the white wicker rocking chair with its dark green cushion that matched the green in the floral bedspread and curtains he thought the room seemed elegant yet comfortable. "It is by far the prettiest bedroom she's ever been in."

At his words Bronagh's smiled broadened. "Uncle Carrick" she paused "or more probably Aunt Francis had wonderful taste. Every room in this house is beautiful."

"Aye" Tom agreed. "But it's the touches like the flowers and all the other work that you've done that will make Ma and Oonagh feel wanted." Tom still felt a little nettled at his mother's insistence when the house wasn't his but neither Carrick nor Bronagh had shown any displeasure of the pending arrival of Claire and Oonagh.

"Of course of want them to feel at home Tom." Bronagh walked over to the window that looked out at the small back garden now lush with greenery. "I can never repay your mother for what she did for me."

When she turned around to face him Tom detected the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "Your mother took me in when I had no place to go other than the nuns and if I had gone there I'd … I'd …" a tear fell down her check. "I wouldn't have my son. Cian would be" Tom rushed to her and held her in his arms.

"Don't think of what might have been Bronagh. Think of what is" he spoke softly as his lips brushed the top of her head. Then he took a step back while still holding her arms. "You have Cian and that's all that matters now."

* * *

It might have been easy to mistake the ebullient Oonagh Branson standing by the railing of the _RMS Olympic_ oohing and aahing as the ocean liner neared the tip of Brooklyn for a young school girl. She had hardly been able to sit still long enough to eat breakfast knowing that in just an hour or two the coast of America would finally come into view. Not wanting to miss that first sighting of land she had staked out a prime viewing spot on the promenade deck and settled down in a deck chair anxiously awaiting that first sight of the land.

She had thought the American coast would be like that of Ireland, high fields of green atop rocky cliffs that plunged down onto small coves of sand or straight into the turbulent sea. It had been five days since the ocean liner had passed Fastnet Light a rocky islet with a towering lighthouse eight miles from County Cork. Nicknamed Ireland's Teardrop this was the last bit of Ireland seen by those thousands of Irish immigrating to North America during the last century. However, unlike the many who had voyaged before her, Oonagh's eyes had been filled with wonder not tears for she was not leaving her beloved homeland, family and friends for an unknown life in a faraway place. For Oonagh this was a holiday, the first real holiday of her young life. There had been day trips to Portmarnoch and Skerries on the coast and once to the Wicklow Mountains but she had never been more than 30 miles from Dublin and now she was going to cross the Atlantic Ocean!

The first sight of land had been rather faint due to the distance but it appeared to be flat with a broad expanse of sandy beach with small dunes topped by tall grasses blowing in the wind. But now … now one could … "Ma" she called out with glee "look there" and pointing as the dark blue early morning sky became the backdrop to the jumble of tall buildings that formed the New York skyline. "They're taller than the clouds" she chirped as some of those tops disappeared into the low lying clouds.

Claire Branson had not begun their sea voyage with the bubbly enthusiasm of her youngest child. While Oonagh had enjoyed every moment on the ocean liner, exploring all of the ship available to second class passengers, (thanks to Tom for an upgrade in class), spending hours sitting on the deck reading, walking around the decks and rewarded with one early morning with the sighting of whales off the starboard side, playing shuffleboard with newly made shipboard friends, Claire Branson had been much more subdued. She had sat quietly in the grand salon or, finally succumbing to her daughter's pleas, lounging in one of the deck chairs sheltered from the sun where she could watch the ever changing sea or the parade of her fellow passengers strolling by or just sit and read or nap.

Two days at sea and she had almost forgotten the mission that was bringing her to New York for it was probably the most peaceful time Claire Branson had ever had in her life. No chores, no children underfoot, no cooking or cleaning, no baskets of clothes needing washing or mending. No fears that the knocking on her front door were police or worse soldiers or those newly formed Blacks and Tans looking for Cillian. It was strange to hear the English voices pleasantly asking her to pass the salt at the long dinner table they shared or inquiring if she had enjoyed her day on the ship or sharing stories of young grandchildren.

After dinner strolls around the deck with Oonagh had allowed Claire to admire the peaceful sight of the nighttime sky. The clear sky above the sea alive with a plethora of bright stars, a sight too often obscured in the rain or smoky haze of Dublin, reminded her of summer evenings as a child when she and her grandfather would sit outside and he'd tell her grand stories of how the stars were fairies and how they came to be in the sky.

Nothing seemed to dampen Oonagh's spirits, not even the one grey afternoon when the sky became full of ominous looking clouds. Luckily the ship had sailed past what later became the center of the storm so that they did not feel the full effects of a storm with lashing rains and deafening claps of thunder. Yet they were still close enough that evening they had been rewarded, as Oonagh remarked from the safety of the enclosed deck and its large plates of glass shielding them from the light rain, with a view of a blackened sky lit by bold flashes of lightning. Some lightning bolts moved from the sky in a straight path to the ocean while others forked creating separate paths of bold light across the sky. Oonagh sat mesmerized by the flashes and even Claire had to admit it was quite a sight to behold.

But now as the first thrilling glimpses of the city came into view Claire automatically pressed tighter her handbag. Buried in that handbag was the letter, Lady Sybil's letter, and Claire still wasn't sure what she would do with it.

* * *

It had been eight months or so since Claire Branson had last seen her son and judging by his appearance those months had obviously been good to him. Gone was the son dressed in a tired brown suit that hung on him as if he had borrowed it from someone taller and wider and whose drab color matched the dullness in his eyes and the paleness of his face that had kissed her goodbye those months ago. The son that met them at the piers was looking dapper in a smoky gray three piece suit that complimented his sparkling blue eyes and whose broad smile lit up his face.

The three Bransons had held each other tight and one might have even detected a tear or two on the usually stoic Claire Branson.

"We weren't sure how much luggage you'd have" Tom answered his mother's inquiry as to the whereabouts of Bronagh. "But she's waiting anxiously at the house for your arrival. And just wait Ma till you see Cian. He's grown like a weed."

The unmistakable joy in Tom's voice was a good sign thought Claire.

After seeing the wide-eyed wonder of his sister as she noted their surroundings, Tom decided to detour a bit on the route to Carrick's house. He showed them the Woolworth Building (tallest building in the world Tom said although from the motor car it was impossible to see to the top), Macy's (the world's largest department store and earning a designation as a must visit from Oonagh), and St. Patrick's Cathedral (earning a must visit from his mother who was disheartened to learn that Tom only came there on special days but her displeasure was soothed when he told her of the small chapel near the house he frequented and where he had become friends with one of the priests) before passing the grand Plaza Hotel and entering Central Park where he crisscrossed the park before emerging on 5th Avenue. He drove across East 65th Street to Park Avenue where he showed them Carrick's stationary shop. Like Tom and Bronagh had been, Claire was surprised that the shop was such an elegant one.

Pulling up to the townhouse on East 62nd Street, Tom could tell that both his mother and sister were flabbergasted at the beautiful house that was his home. "If only Muireann could have seen this" his mother quietly stated. "She was always so proud of her big brother."

The three had barely gotten out of the motor car when the front door flew open and out came Bronagh carrying Cian quickly followed by Carrick. Hugs and kisses befitting a grand reunion were exchanged there on the pavement.

"It's been a long time" Carrick stated as he held onto Claire. His eyes glanced around and then eyes misting he pronounced "I don't think I've ever seen you without Muireann."

"It doesn't matter if it's four years or forty you still miss em" Claire replied and Carrick silently nodded.

* * *

All at the East 62nd Street townhouse would agree that the next two weeks seemed to fly by. The city had a multitude of places to see and visit and Oonagh found she enjoyed just walking around taking in the sights. The close by Central Park offered lakeside walks, picnics in the shade of spreading maples, and model boat races (a favorite of Carrick and Tom). There was a day trip to one of those barrier islands Oonagh had faintly seen from the ocean liner where they walked on pristine sand, braved bare feet touching the icy cold water, and dined on a seafood stew cooked over an open fire.

Yet all would agree that the best times were those they sat around the big square kitchen table or out on the terrace (especially on those warm evenings) eating and talking and drinking endless cups of tea. The Branson siblings and Bronagh were fascinated by the stories Carrick told of their mothers.

"And when did ya become such a story teller?" or "Aye ya full of the blarney" Claire would lightheartedly admonished him while Tom and Oonagh relished seeing this care-free side of their mother.

And through it all Claire carefully watched the interaction between Tom and Bronagh. The playfulness and easy camaraderie between the two spoke of a deep friendship and Tom seemed as devoted to little Cian as Bronagh was. Yet Claire still wasn't sure of the exact nature of their relationship and gentle prodding of Carrick produced no further refinement of the situation.

One afternoon while Bronagh put Cian down for his nap, Claire retreated to her bedroom and took out the envelope from the nightstand drawer. She stood there staring at the envelope and finally made a decision.

"Bronagh" Claire called as she descended to the second floor. "What if I make some tea and we sit and chat in the back garden?"


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Since the last chapter to this story I've posted the beginning of a new story (Same Time Next Year) and a new chapter to The Crawley Girls and I feel a bit guilty not finishing this story instead of embarking on something new. This is very short but I'm busy for the next several days and won't be able to write or post later this week.**

Claire Branson had been surprised by Bronagh's reaction to Sybil's letter and, if she was honest with herself, a bit disappointed.

* * *

Long after Cian had fallen asleep, settled safe and snug in his crib for his afternoon nap, Bronagh remained seated across the room in the rocking chair. Although these days she rarely had to rock her son to sleep, she'd often sit here after putting him in his crib waiting for him to fall asleep. She looked around the room that Tom had created as a nursery for her son.

It had been a Christmas gift from Tom who had labored for weeks on converting the small dark room that had once been a dressing room into Cian's nursery. The dark wood wainscoting had been stripped and painted white while the walls above the wainscoting were painted a shade of green that Tom jokingly called "shamrock". Like the rest of the rooms in the house where the furniture was mahogany or walnut or some other dark wood, the furniture here was of cherry. Bronagh thought the most interesting piece was the humpbacked chest with its leather straps and decorative brass rings and knobs that Tom called a pirate chest. He had found it in a dusty old second hand shop and had painstakingly restored it to its current glory as Cian's toy chest.

Bronagh closed her eyes and leaned back in the rocking chair. There were definitely times when she wished she had married Tom. If so life would go on as it had these past months. But they hadn't married and with the news that Claire Branson had brought Bronagh knew the life they had created here would change. Claire had asked her to think long and hard about it but Bronagh knew she had no choice. Although Claire had witnessed her son's reaction to the telegram informing them of Sybil's death, it was Bronagh who had been there with him when he learned she wasn't dead. It was Bronagh who heard his cries of despair at Sybil's supposed betrayal.

* * *

Tom, like Bronagh and Carrick, had neglected work for much of the past two weeks that his mother and Oonagh had been here. Carrick had even closed the stationery shop for a full week so he could devote his time to his guests. Otherwise the stationery shop, as well as the print shop, had operated with their capable manager or assistant while Carrick, Bronagh or Tom had only darted in and out to fulfill chores that couldn't wait or to ensure that things were running well. There were two or three articles that Tom had to write and he found time while his mother and Oonagh were otherwise occupied or stayed up far into the night after everyone else had retired for the evening.

Bronagh, holding a cherry wood tray with two cups of tea, a plate with slices of pound cake and two linen napkins, stood in the doorway to Tom's office. She thought he looked especially handsome sitting at his desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair mussed from running his fingers through it, something he did whenever he was concentrating on his work. _I have been so happy these past months she thought. Maybe I have should have married him but I can't change the past. But the future …_

Tom must have smelled the warm aroma of the tea or the lemon sauce drizzled over the slices of pound cake for, with his eyes still focused on his paper, said "Are you going to stand there all day tempting me?"

He looked up from his desk and smiled at her. It was one of those lopsided grins that always melted her heart.

She returned his smile as she walked to the desk and set down the tray. "I wasn't sure you should be interrupted" she teased.

"Or not sure if I should have the cake? If my mother stays here much longer I'm afraid she'll have to start letting out the seams of my clothes."

Bronagh laughed although Tom's comment didn't stop him from taking a bite of cake and proclaiming it delicious.

Grateful for the break, he took another bite of cake and sipped his tea. "So where is everyone?"

"Oonagh and Uncle Carrick have gone out" Bronagh smiled. "Something about someone having a birthday next week and the need for something special."

Tom chuckled and again had that endearing lopsided grin. "And is this someone trying to tell me something or maybe reminding me?"

In gest, Bronagh sighed and rolled her eyes. "I would think you would remember something so important."

"And my mum didn't go on this important task?"

"Your mother and Mrs. Grady are in the kitchen discussing the best recipes for cottage pie. I think we'll have evidence of such at dinner tonight."

Tom shook his head. "My mum should be taking advantage of having someone cooking for her."

He took another bite of cake. ""My mum does take seriously that saying about idle hands."

"Do you know that she's already knitted Cian three sweaters for this winter? But don't feel envy because she bought wool yesterday for a sweater for you."

"Will it match one of Cian's sweaters?" Tom laughed.

The laughter drained from Bronagh's face. She took her tea cup and walked over to one of the windows. She watched as two motor cars lumbered up the road and two older ladies, each holding a shopping bag, walked down the pavement on the opposite side of the quiet street.

Tom took another sip of tea and finished the last of his cake. He looked at her profile and thought how pretty she looked with the sunlight striking her hair and giving it a golden glow. Yet he also couldn't help but notice that gone was the teasing atmosphere of just minutes ago as Bronagh remained at the window looking so serious.

Lately, before his mother had arrived, Bronagh had been striking out on her own a bit. She had made friends with the secretary for the law firm that occupied the upper floor of the building with the stationery shop and that friendship had gone beyond lunch time to excursions to shops and museums and even a party or two. And there was that solicitor from the same firm that had been hanging around the shop a couple of times when Tom was there. Tom had grudgingly admitted to himself that he felt pangs of jealousy although he knew that wasn't fair to Bronagh.

Staring out the window Bronagh thought of those words of that Roman philosopher Seneca _every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end._ She patted her skirt and felt the letter in her pocket. Slowly she turned back to face Tom.

"Remember a few weeks ago when you were researching that article on bad landlords and you went to that health clinic?"

"Of course" Tom said nodding. "You mentioned wanting to help in some way and talked about going to the clinic."

Now it was Bronagh's turn to nod. "I did go there. That week you told me about it."

Curious as to why she hadn't mentioned this before, Tom watched as Bronagh sat down on the green leather chair that faced his desk wondering why she suddenly seemed nervous. He suddenly remembered that evening when she had seemed uncharacteristically solemn and he had caught her staring at him during dinner. Later that evening he had found her sitting in the dark on the terrace obviously in deep thought but she wouldn't share those thoughts with him. He had thought at the time that maybe it had to do with that solicitor.

"I saw Sybil there." The words were sharp and clear and stunned Tom for whatever he expected her to say that wasn't it.

"I wasn't sure at first who it was, she looked familiar but I couldn't quite place her until one of the other nurses called her Nurse Crawley and then I heard her voice and I knew for sure it was her."

Tom remained quiet but his stare seemed to bore through her.

"Why are you even telling me about this Bronagh? You know that … surely you remember …"

"I think she was volunteering as a nurse there in hopes of finding you."

"Why would she think I'd be there?" His words came out harsher than he intended.

Bronagh looked down at her lap and then up at Tom "It's a clinic with mostly Irish patients."

Tom still didn't quite get the connection as to why Sybil would think he'd attend that particular clinic. Nor for that matter could he imagine why Bronagh would think Sybil was even looking for him. Sybil might have been a liar, but he couldn't imagine she was so cold hearted as to rub salt in his wounds.

"She didn't lie to you Tom."

"And how do you know that Bronagh? She told you and you believed her?

Tom stood up and threw his pencil on the desk top. Running his hand through his hair he marched up and down the small space behind his desk before stopping behind his chair.

"Why are you telling me this Bronagh?" His bewilderment had been replaced by anger. "Why bring all this up? You expect me to sit there graciously while you have her over for tea?"

Despite his anger, Bronagh remained calm, her voice soft and soothing despite her own feelings. She knew what she was about to tell him would change her life too.

"Your mother did have a reason for coming here now Tom."

For the first time Tom realized that Bronagh held an envelope in her hand.

"She just received this although it was mailed months ago and it sat forgotten at a neighbor's house for months."

Bronagh held out the envelope to Tom. "Read it Tom."

 **A/N: Surprised? I'm anxious to hear (or rather read) your thoughts on this chapter.**


	29. Chapter 29

From her seat in the wingback chair facing his desk Bronagh watched Tom read Sybil's letter to Mrs. Branson. She was surprised that as he read the letter his face remained a blank slate giving no outward signs of his feelings upon reading Sybil's words. Knowing she had been unable to conceal her own emotions upon reading the letter, in fact she had stopped as several points and made comments to Claire Branson, made Bronagh all the more curious of Tom's unexpected reaction or, more accurately she supposed, lack of reaction.

When they were children Tom wore his heart on his sleeve as the old adage went and he had often been teased for it. You always knew when he was excited or hurt or curious or, on those very rare occasions, angry just by looking at him. _Never tell Tommy a secret_ one of his brothers would say for _Ma will know just looking at him_. Yet the Tom reading this letter, reading words that had dramatically changed his life and could further change his life, gave no indication of his feelings. Maybe it was all those years as a servant having to kowtow to his masters that had taught him to conceal his emotions and opinions thought Bronagh.

Bronagh's mind drifted back to when she had come to stay at the Branson house in Dublin remembering how giddy Tom had been describing Sybil to her. Hearing Tom talk with obvious admiration and love made her happy for him and she hated to admit it but a bit envious for his talk made her realize how dubious her own love affair had been. She had been courted two or three times before but they had been rather sedate affairs of outings to local dances, church suppers, and book readings that had never led to more than a few quick kisses. It was only with Will that she had felt that rush of excitement, that longing when separated, that desire to spend every moment together. While she had been in love, Will had used that love for his own selfish purposes and had thrown her away as soon as it was inconvenient for him.

Tom finished reading the letter and with his hands noticeably trembling laid it flat on his desk. His head remained bowed and with his fingers running up and down the page appeared to read it all again.

"Tom?" She leaned forwarded, her arm stretching so that her hand grazed the top of his.

"Oh Bronagh" he finally spoke. Lifting his head his eyes met hers. "It's all so … so …" he stumbled trying to find the right words. "It's unthinkable what his lordship and her family did."

Bronagh nodded in agreement. What Sybil's father had done was horrible and cruel not only to Tom but also Sybil. She had seen firsthand the damage his lordship's actions had done to Tom and now wondered what damage his actions had done to Sybil.

"But now you have the chance to make things right."

Tom looked at her. "Do I? This letter was written months ago. It's been over a year since we parted."

"Without knowing exactly where you were she came to New York to find you Tom. She's still here."

"But it's been months. What if … if she's …" he turned and stared out the window. "That picture in the paper … she was with …"

Tom turned and looked at Bronagh "I can't go through it all again."

"Tom Branson!" Bronagh rose quickly from her chair. "Even when you thought she had lied to you … it hurt so bad because you loved her. You know that she's never left your heart. Anyone else you will just be settling for. I know that."

Her words cut through Tom like a knife. He looked at her pretty face with its sprinkling of freckles across her rosy complexion and the dark blue eyes that were now blazing. He would have been happy with her … he was happy with her. They had been through this part of the conversation before and despite what he said she had never moved away from the thought that Sybil would always be between them. But now … knowing that Sybil hadn't lied to him, that she had looked for him, he knew Bronagh was right.

"Whatever happens Tom you can deal with it. I'm here. Your mother's here and Oonagh and Uncle Carrick. Don't be so foolish as to throw this opportunity away."

* * *

On this fine late afternoon, Sybil, wearing a black smock over her clothes and a white scarf wrapped around her head, sat at the huge roll top desk in the large room that served as both an office and library. Underneath that smock she was unconventionally dressed in trousers for months on this job had taught her that on days like this when she was cleaning out drawers and shuffling through boxes trousers gave her better mobility as well as ensured modesty.

Despite the now curtainless windows being wide open allowing sunlight to flood the room and at times a light breeze to flow in there was still a staleness lingering in the room, a consequence of years of neglect. Like most of the rest of the rooms in the house this one had needed a good cleaning from the dust laden furniture to the fireplace grate overflowing with ashes to the heavy dusty drapes covering the grimy windows. Although the dust and ashes and grime were now gone, neither the fresh air pouring in through the windows nor the newly lemon polished furniture had completely erased the smells of cigars and musty books.

The house belonged to the late Peridine Hercule Pettigrew whom Sybil would charitably call an eccentric. The late Mr. Pettigrew, who had inherited a vast fortune at the age of fifteen, had once been a dashing sailor and explorer according to the many newspaper clippings Sybil had found tucked in a hatbox stored in a long intricately carved wooden chest that took up most of the floor space against one wall of this room. The chest looked like something he had brought back from one of his visits to the Far East. Indeed the whole house was filled with such lovely pieces of furniture as well as lacquered chests and wall panels, silk tapestries, and an enormous amount of vases and figurines and decorative boxes some made of intricate carvings of wood, ivory or jade while others were enameled or delicately hand painted. Not so lovely according to Sybil were the skins and hides of animals found in Asia or South America.

Yet not all of the late Mr. Pettigrew's possessions were of such fine quality. Sybil had found two large drawers crammed with door knobs and dresser pulls. To her amusement another drawer was filled to the brim with buttons. She had pondered long and hard over the discovery of a box containing 35 gold chains with lockets of various sizes all filled with his own photograph. Had these lockets been returned from former loves she wondered or had he bought them for someone or many someones who had rebuffed him?

Of all the objects Sybil had found, the most interesting to her was a collection of old maps she had unfolded and laid flat on the desktop and which she was now poring over. She guessed that a few of them with handwritten notes on them had actually been used by Peridine on his travels.

"Sybil?" Charles called out from the doorway surprised at finding her still her. "I thought you had already left."

Without looking up Sybil loudly and cheerily remarked "Oh Charles I've just found the most interesting collection of old maps!"

Charles silently chuckled to himself at Sybil's exuberance. Most people would look at the items they assessed strictly in terms of its monetary value but Sybil often looked beyond such value and thought of the items' past. Curious not just about the maps but Sybil's obvious interest, Charles walked across the room to stand by the desk and look down at the maps scattered about the desk top. "Some maps can be quite valuable."

"Oh I think most maps are valuable" Sybil replied. "Maybe not monetarily but how they can make you dream about some place."

Charles cocked his head to look at Sybil waiting for her to expand on her comments.

"Once my sisters became teenagers they no longer wanted to play with me so I spent hours alone trying to amuse myself. My father had an old atlas and I'd love looking through it. I'd pick a place and make up stories about getting there" she looked at Charles "you know fighting pirates or bandits or alligators or giant snakes or braving snowstorms or roiling seas or the shifting sands of deserts."

She chuckled before going on. "And then once I got there I think of what I'd search for like treasures or what to explore."

She looked back down at the maps and sighed. "I've only dreamed about such stuff but Mr. Pettigrew actually did those things."

She was silent for a minute or two and then looked up at Charles and grinned. "And then after all that he ended up in this big old house, all alone, collecting door knobs and buttons."

* * *

Tom leaned against the stone wall that separated the pavement from Central Park. With his back towards the park he looked across Fifth Avenue at the tall gray apartment building that took up the whole block. He was rather surprised that Sybil's grandmother lived in an apartment rather than one of the grand townhouses that filled the blocks around here. She's there, somewhere up there, behind one of those windows thought Tom.

He wasn't sure why he was standing here staring up at her building. Since he had left her on the Downton railway station platform he had thought and dreamed about meeting her again although most of that time he thought such a meeting would be in the next life not this one. He reached into his jacket pocket and felt her letter to his Ma. Taking a deep breath he waited for a car to pass and then hurried across the street.

The door was opened by a tall man dressed in a uniform of dark gray trimmed with gold braiding and shiny buttons. Walking into the lobby, Tom felt as if he were back at Downton for certainly this room with its vaulted ceiling, ornate cornices, rounded columns, and tons of marble was as grand as any room at Downton.

"May I help you sir?" The voice came from the far end of the room.

Dressed like his counterpart at the door minus the gloves and hat, the man stood next to a marble desk guarding the path to the elevator.

"I'd like to see Lady Sybil Crawley."

"Is she expecting you?" The voice had a slight sneer to it as if Tom's Irish accent automatically prohibited him from entering through the front door.

Tom wanted to reply that she had been expecting him for months but instead settled for a quick shake of his head. "I don't have an appointment with her if that's what you mean but I'm an old friend from England."

"England?" the sneer had now become almost derisive.

Tom glared at the man and his shiny brass buttons on his uniform and suddenly thought of Thomas Barrow. "Yes England. I knew her in England. Now are you going to call her or do I have to sit here and wait for her to walk through the lobby?"

Without a word the man walked to the telephone on his desk and called the Levinson apartment and asked for Lady Sybil Crawley. Hanging up the phone he turned back towards Tom and said "She's-"

"I heard" Tom interrupted. "I'll wait" he looked around at the several seating areas in the lobby "over there."

He walked to one of the smaller seating areas with just two red velvet chairs and a small table between them. One of the round marble columns blocked his view of the man and his desk but he had a good view of the front door although anyone entering the building would have to turn their head to spot him. He had surmised from the man's conversation that Sybil was not home but due any minute. However that any minute turned into fifteen minutes before the lobby door opened but to his regret it was an older couple. However, just a minute or two later that door again opened and that familiar husky voice with its cut glass English accent floated into the room.

She stepped into the cool marble hall looking as beautiful as she did in his dreams.

He watched her walk half way across the room before finally rising from his chair. With her sight focused on the elevator at the far end of the room, she didn't notice him walking towards her.

"Sybil" he called out causing her to stop dead in her tracks yet she didn't immediately turn towards the sound of his voice. It wasn't until he was close enough that he could have reached out and touched her that she finally turned her head towards him. "Sybil" he softly said again.

"Tom?" she said in disbelief.

He smiled as he reached out to touch her arm. His thoughts, hopes, that she would wrap her arms around him and kiss him passionately were quickly doused as she pulled away from him. They stood silently facing each other, he wondering if it was a mistake to come here after all and she wondering why he was here.

He had never been able to read her face for like most of her kind she kept her emotions bottled up. Just like now as she stood there staring at him her face didn't reveal whatever it was she was thinking. That lack of reaction felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come here" he finally mumbled as he looked towards the door.

He had only moved an inch or two before she grabbed his arm. "What are you doing here?" Although the words sounded like a demand, he saw that her hand trembled and her lower lip quivered.

He looked down at the floor and then towards the door, anywhere to avoid looking at her. "I … I thought …" he stumbled before reaching into his pocket and pulling out her letter to his mother. "I just got this" he said as he held out the envelope to her.

Her eyes widened in surprise as she noted it was the letter she had written to his mother all those months ago. "You just got this?" she looked in astonishment at him and then down at the envelope and then back up to his face.

He nodded. "Today in fact."

"But I posted it-"

"I know but it was delivered to a neighbor's house and it sat there for months while she was away and then" he looked at her. "My mother came here from Ireland to give it to me." He wouldn't tell her that his mother had gone to Bronagh instead of him and that it was Bronagh who insisted the letter be shared with him.

"Oh Tom" she moaned as she seemed on the verge of tears.

"Sybil can we sit down and talk?" His hand gently caressed her cheek.

Closing her eyes she looked down towards the floor and took a deep breath but she didn't bat his hand away instead wrapping one of her gloved hands around his. When she finally looked at him again, her lips quivered and she blinked back tears. "It's too late isn't it? We can't change what's happened Tom."

"What's happened?" he was perplexed by her comments. How could it be too late for them he wondered. Unless … it suddenly dawned on him. "Does this mean you've found someone else Sybil?"

His words snapped her out of her languidness. "Me? It's you that's married" she snapped at him.

Although his legs didn't move, he tilted his upper body away from her, his forehead creasing in puzzlement as he stared at her. "What?" his raised voice surprised her and also caught the attention of the concierge who in great curiosity had been watching the couple and he rose to his feet.

"Please Sybil we need to talk" he pleaded with her once again.

They did need to talk but she didn't want to take him upstairs to the apartment for it wasn't a conversation they needed to have in front of her grandmother.

"Is everything alright Lady Sybil?" the concierge said as he walked towards them. He might have asked her but his hard dark eyes were focused on Tom.

She looked at the concierge and transformed once again into _Lady_ _Sybil_ raising her hand to stop him from coming any closer and giving him a pat smile. "It's fine George."

She looked back at Tom. "How about the park?"

Neither spoke as they made their way across the street and into the park. It was as they walked that Tom finally noticed how Sybil was dressed. From the moment she stepped into the lobby he had been so focused on her face that he had failed to note she wasn't the impeccably dressed _Lady Sybil_. Carrying a wide brimmed straw hat in her hands, wisps of her dark brown hair had escaped the hair pins holding her hair back into a loose chignon. Her short sleeved flowered blouse was perfect for this warmer weather but it was her dark wide-legged trousers that caused Tom to widen his eyes in disbelief. It wasn't that he disapproved of such an outfit, in fact he thought it seemed to match the independent Sybil he had known, but he did wonder where she had been dressed like that.

Sybil seemed to know where she wanted to go and led him away from the pedestrian walkway to a lone wooden bench set in a grassy area under a wide-branching maple tree. They had barely sat down when Tom spoke.

"Why ever would you think I'm married Sybil?"

"But ... but the detective reported that" Sybil nervously said "and … and then I … I saw you with the baby."

"You saw me with Cian?"

"The detective gave me your address and I" she licked her bottom lip. "I just had to see where you were living and you came out of the house carrying the baby."

"A detective?"

Sybil nodded as she babbled on. "After I got here and there had been no answer from your mother I hired a private detective but he couldn't find any record of your arrival in America or working at a newspaper. So he contacted someone in Dublin to make inquiries there and that man reported back that you had married and with your wife and baby and moved to New York." Her words coming out in a rush.

Sybil paused as she took in some air. "And I thought that was it but then he read the article you wrote and through the magazine found your address and he-"

"The man that came to see me" Tom interrupted her as it became so clear to him. "He claimed he wanted to hire me for a writing job but he seemed to be more interested in my personal life than my writing. He was your detective?"

"Yes that was him. Roland. He gave me your address and I just had to see where you were living and hoping that maybe I'd get a glance at you but then you came out of the house holding the baby and I followed you to here."

Tom leaned against the back of the bench and rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Oh Sybil" he sighed "I think we got this so mixed up."

He then proceeded to tell her about those dark days after the telegram came from her father, about his drinking, about losing the job at the newspaper. Although he talked about how Bronagh got him through those dark days he didn't mention he had asked her to marry him.

Sybil sat quietly listening to Tom talk and when he told of losing his job and the drinking she reached over and clasp his hand in hers.

"Bronagh offered me a new start to come with her to New York and help her run her uncle's stationery shop."

He looked at Sybil and for the first time since he began talking he smiled. "We were shocked when we got here to find her uncle lives in that beautiful townhouse and the stationery shop wasn't some hole in the wall dusty shop but a high end place that caters to your class."

"So you've been here all this time working at the stationery shop and writing magazine articles on the side?"

Tom laughed. "Actually I manage Carrick's printing business but I've been writing more and more. I'm even doing some writing for some local Irish papers."

"Oh Tom" Sybil said softly, his hand still firmly grasped in hers. With her other hand she gently caressed the side of his face "So what happens now?"

"Well" he looked at her with that lop-sided grin of his and she was instantly transported back to the garage at Downton. He thought of saying you could tell me what happened after I left Downton, you could tell me what you've been doing here, you could tell me why you're dressed like that. But he didn't say any of that. There would be plenty of time later for that.

He finally said "You could kiss me. That is if I'm still you're fiancé."

 **A/N** : **and so they've finally met. I'm a bit nervous since your reviews on your desires for their reunion set the bar so high.**


	30. Chapter 30

**Thank you all for the reviews of the last chapter. I know it's been awhile but I had such trouble writing this chapter.**

As the taxi cab pulled away, Tom stood on the pavement looking up at the townhouse. The barest of light filtered through a tiny gap in the curtains of the front parlor's bay window while light streamed through the open window of his bedroom like a lighthouse beacon. Someone, probably his mother, had turned his nightstand lamp on so that he'd be able to make his way up to his room without disturbing the house's now sleeping occupants.

He paused at the top of the steps leading to the front door. Despite the late hour, Tom knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. The events of the evening were still too fresh, too raw, to allow sleep. With nightfall the air had become cooler and a breeze rustled the leaves of the trees that lined the street. Tom looked up at the sky where drifting clouds covered and uncovered the half moon and only a few stars were visible. Maybe there would be an early morning rain he thought as he took off his suit jacket and sat down on the next to last step. Loosening his tie and then running his hand through his hair, he leaned back against the top step and looked up at the sky once again. Only a sliver of the moon now peeked out from a cloud cover and much of blackness of the sky had become a muted gray due to the increasing clouds.

He closed his eyes and images of Sybil as she had looked tonight floated into his mind. Sometimes those beautiful blue eyes had been filled with anger and at other times with sorrow and then at last with unbridled joy as they sat under the shade of the towering maple tree wading through the tangle of all the deceits and misunderstandings of the past year.

Once they had gotten through that jumble the rest of the evening had been much like old times with conversation flowing easily and openly between them. Tom chuckled thinking of this … old times … sure if old times had been in a luxury apartment instead of a garage smelling of grease and petrol. If old times had been sitting openly at a table dining on shrimp and salmon and drinking wine rather than the occasional surreptitious picnic of sandwiches and cider in some hidden corner of the vast Downton estate. If old times had been sitting in the parlor conversing with his lordship or ladyship.

Sybil's grandmother had warmly welcomed him into her home. Rather than the stuffy grand parlor with its various seating arrangements or the large formal dining room with its table for twenty, they sat in what Mrs. Levinson referred to as the sitting room. It was, by Tom's standards, a large room that could have been the parlor in most normal homes with two comfy lounge chairs flanking a fireplace but the obvious centerpiece was the round dining table which Mrs. Levinson referred to as her card table. He thought the informality of it allowed them to get better acquainted although Tom mused that he and Martha Levinson would have easily bonded anywhere.

Martha Levinson had been quite a surprise to him. He had envisioned an older version of Sybil's quiet mother but found instead a loud outspoken woman who was admiring of Tom's move from chauffeur to journalist and print shop manager. We're not so set in our ways as those English she had said adding that her late husband was a self-made man. Even more surprising was her remark that his Lordship had no qualms accepting that Levinson wealth which had saved Downton from ruin.

Both he and Sybil admitted there had been some good things about the past year. For Sybil it was a paying job that she found interesting and challenging while still continuing with her nursing as volunteer at the health clinic. It was the chance to get to know her American grandmother who had been a vague and distant part of her childhood (something that brought unexpected tears to Martha). It was, most of all, becoming an independent woman who made her own choices.

For him it was writing for established and well regarded magazines. It was his involvement in the movement for Irish independence in his work with a couple of groups working for here in the States for independence and writing articles for both underground and legitimate newspapers. It was learning how to operate a business. It was the domestic life with Bronagh and Carrick and little Cian where he was treated like a family member.

The late night silence was broken by a stronger gust of wind causing a sharper rustling of the leaves and branches and the sudden rattling of an iron gate. Somewhere a dog barked. A couple, his arm wrapped around her waist, strolled down the pavement across from Tom. The click-clack of her heels striking the pavement echoed even after the couple was out of his sight. Tom breathed in deeply and thought he could detect Sybil's lavender scent on his shirt from when he had held her tightly and her head rested on his chest.

Something brushed against his arm and Tom was startled to see his mother. "Ma?" he asked in surprise. "What are you doing out here this late?"

Her hand leaning on her son's shoulder she lowered herself to sit beside him. "I've been wondering all evening as to what" she looked sharply at him as if his face would reveal a clue as to how his reunion with Sybil had gone. "Did you … did you see her?"

"Oh Ma" Tom exclaimed as a broad grin lit up his face.

Although she waited for him to continue, his smile told her how it had gone.

"We had so much to talk about, to sort out, to wade through all the lies and deceptions and misunderstandings." Tom swallowed hard as he looked out at the street. "The crazy thing is that these past few months while I thought she had lied to me she thought I was married." He proceeded to tell her about Sybil hiring the private detective and the report that came back from Dublin and then of the detective discovering Tom's magazine article and even visiting him.

He lifted his arm in the direction of the street. "She actually came here and stood there" he flung his arm towards the corner "in hopes of seeing me. Not to talk to me but just to assure herself I looked well and happy."

"She saw me come out of the house with Cian in my arms." He turned and looked at his mother "it only cemented the idea that I was married and she wouldn't intrude on that."

Claire swallowed hard as she realized that Sybil had ended her attempts to find Tom. It was Claire's own action of bringing the letter here that made Tom and Sybil's reunion possible.

"Ma?"

Claire turned her head to face her son. Tom couldn't help but notice she didn't seem to share his happiness.

He had always been her pride and joy. The son that had been so eager to learn, to know more about the world. The son that she had high hopes for. He had achieved so much more here in New York than he would have writing for that two-bit paper in Ireland that had already folded. He would still have been in poverty only saddled with a wife used to the finest in life.

"I love her Ma" he spoke quietly.

Emitting a weak smile she nodded her head. Reaching her hands up she

brushed back the fringe of his hair that always seemed to fall over his forehead.

"All I've ever wanted for you, for all of my children, is to be happy."

She smiled more broadly. "So when do I get to meet her?"

Tom beamed as he wrapped his arm around his mother's shoulders. "She's coming to dinner tomorrow."

* * *

From the open doorway of her grandmother's apartment Sybil, her hand still raised in goodbye, watched as the elevator began its descent carrying Tom to the lobby. Remaining there even after Tom was gone from her sight she brushed her hand across her cheek and then touched the corner of her lips where the warmth of his kisses still lingered. Finally she took a step back into the foyer and softly closed the door. Turning around Sybil found herself smiling broadly. She wanted to jump up and down in joy screaming in delight instead, mindful of a now sleeping grandmother, she giggled and danced through the foyer and into the grand parlor.

Not an hour earlier she, sitting next to Tom on the sofa with her head resting on his chest, had dozed off. After talking for so long in the sitting room, her grandmother had gracefully exited to her bedroom and she and Tom had moved to the parlor. Gazing at the sofa she thought of how wonderful it had felt to sit next to him there, her hand holding his, his arm around her shoulder. Now she found herself too caught up in the euphoria of the evening to contemplate sleep. As she twirled around the room she spotted her reflection in the huge gilded mirror over the fireplace causing her to break out in laughter. Was this what she had looked like as a little girl dancing and twirling about, hopping from leg to leg, full of excitement or anticipation? _Calm down Sybil. Wait your turn Sybil. Young ladies don't …_

Chewing on her bottom lip, Sybil looked at her reflection and what she saw looking back at her was a young woman happy and in love.

She curled up in one of the lounge chairs in front of the window overlooking Central Park. The open window provided a cooling breeze and removing her hair pins Sybil tilted her head allowing the breeze to gently tousle her hair. Looking out the open window she saw the darkness of the park broken here and there by the rays of light from the gas lamps. Somewhere down there she thought is where my life changed once again.

"This time nothing and no one is going to interfere" she spoke aloud. "I am going to marry you Tom Branson."

* * *

Sybil had barely stepped away from the taxi when the front door flew open and Tom raced down the front steps. Not caring about propriety he scooped her into his arms and kissed her cheek. "It feels great to do that" he said and in return she laughed and ran her hand through his hair.

She patted her hair and then looked down at her dress. During her time in New York she had become rather nonchalant about clothes but this evening she had taken an hour to decide what to wear. Too dressy. Too plain. Too fussy. Too prim. In the end she had decided on a dotted swiss fabric summer dress of deep purple and white.

Sensing Sybil's apprehension, Tom reached for her hand. "My mother will love you Sybil."

"I just want her to" Sybil paused. "I want your mother to at least think I'm-"

"No matter what Sybil" Tom broke in "we're going to be married." He turned towards her and gave her that lopsided grin. "She'll love you for making me so happy."

Tom had said that it didn't matter what his mother thought but Sybil knew that wasn't really true. She knew how much it hurt that her family had rejected Tom and she didn't want them to start a life together with only her grandmother's acceptance. But it wasn't only Mrs. Branson that Sybil was worried about. There was also Bronagh.

They had only walked half way up the steps when a smiling young woman appeared in the open doorway. Sybil was sure this was Oonagh for although her hair was a bit darker than Tom's she had the same general facial features and lovely blue eyes as his.

Oonagh didn't wait for Sybil and Tom to meet her but took a few steps out onto the porch where she smiled warmly, announced she was Tom's sister Oonagh and then hugged Sybil. "It's so wonderful to finally meet you" she spoke quietly into Sybil's ear in a stronger Irish lilt than Tom's.

Sybil thought meeting Oonagh would be the easiest part of the evening for according to Tom his beloved youngest sister adored her brother and had such an easy and outgoing manner. Sybil knew immediately that she wouldn't have to do anything to win her over.

The elderly man that greeted Sybil upon her entry into the marbled floor entrance hall wasn't quite as readable as Oonagh. Carrick McGrann dressed in a dark gray suit that was obviously tailored for his tall and slender frame had, despite his age of probably 70 or so, a full head of thick wavy gray hair, was quite handsome and had a general air of confidence and authority about him. His smile seemed genuine when he politely shook her hand and welcomed her to his house in his barely detectable Irish accent but Sybil couldn't help thinking his perceptive blue eyes were appraising her.

Tom had talked effusively of Bronagh. He attributed Bronagh for getting him through those dark days after he had received her father's telegraph about her supposed death and he credited Bronagh for his new life here in New York. Although she hadn't pried, she was curious about his actual relationship with Bronagh thinking there might be a bit more than he was telling her. Now with the way Bronagh's uncle was looking at her those doubts deepened and Sybil wondered if he was comparing her to Bronagh.

Looking around her Sybil noticed off to the left was a sitting room and to her right was a library. "I imagine this room is Tom's favorite" Sybil said as she stepped from the entrance hall into the library/study with its floor to ceiling built-in mahogany cabinets. "Our mutual interest in books started our friendship."

"Carrick's collection is quite vast and I've been lucky to read so many new books" Tom added.

Sybil nodded as she noted the varied titles. While most of the shelves contained books, Sybil was drawn to a collection of Celtic pewter ware.

"These are lovely" she said as she looked at the various tankards, crosses, pill boxes, and trinkets. "Did you bring them back from your trips to Ireland?"

"Mostly" Carrick answered as he walked over to stand beside her and he began telling her about some of the items.

Tom had asked his mother that tonight's dinner be an informal affair where they sat around the large table in the kitchen rather than dine in the formal dining room. She of course had pleaded that eating in the kitchen, even a large lovely kitchen like this one, was no place for a first meeting with her future daughter-in-law especially a future daughter-in-law who was a _Lady_ but Tom had insisted.

" _Really Tom I just don't see how you think this is appropriate." Claire looked back and forth between her son and the kitchen table._

" _I just think something informal is better Ma. It was like that last night with Sybil's grandmother. We sat around the table just off the kitchen like old friends and talked."_ Of course Tom didn't tell his mother that the room wasn't actually in the kitchen or that the room was only small in comparison to the apartment's other rooms. Then again the kitchen here in Carrick's townhouse wasn't like the small cramped kitchen of the Branson Dublin house where they could barely manage to all sit around the table and depending on where on actually sat some could touch the stove or the sink. This kitchen was actually two halves with the working part one end and the other, in front of wide glass doors that opened onto the terrace, an area to relax with a large table.

" _You don't invite someone for dinner and serve them in the kitchen" his mother countered still not convinced of Tom's plan._

Not one to sit idly Claire Branson often helped Mrs. Grady, Carrick's housekeeper and cook, in the kitchen and tonight had been no exception. Claire took one last look at the table that had been set for six. Although she had conceded to dine in here, she had covered the table with a linen tablecloth and used a better set of china, crystal ware and silverware than those they used every day. Satisfied that the table looked as perfect as it could, Claire ran her hands down the front of her long apron wishing the dress it covered was a bit more elegant.

Claire stood in the arched doorway of the library where Carrick was relating stories of his pewter ware. Glad that none of the three were aware of her presence, Claire was able to unobtrusively observe Sybil. Her white cloche hat had a wide purple ribbon hat perfectly matched the deep purple of her tea dress, a term Claire had learned from Oonagh and Bronagh, as did her low-heeled shoes. In Claire's eyes Sybil looked summery and as if she should be sitting on a terrace sipping tea or maybe more fitting a cocktail.

"Ma!" Tom exclaimed as he immediately tugged on Sybil's arm. It wasn't until Sybil turned around that Claire realized Tom hadn't exaggerated when he said how beautiful she was with her very dark hair, clear complexion, and sparkling blue eyes. As she realized it was Claire standing there Sybil's face it up in a beaming smile that only made her even more beautiful.

"This is-" Tom began as he and Sybil started walking across the room but was quickly interrupted by his mother.

"I know. Lady Sybil" she said somewhat stiffly and formally.

"Please Mrs. Branson just call me Sybil" Sybil said as she reached out her hand to the woman she hoped would soon be her mother-in-law. She was taller and slimmer than Sybil. Her surprisingly light auburn colored hair was pulled back in a loose chignon but her eyes seemed the same shade of blue as Tom's. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Under Tom's withering look and Sybil's beaming smile, Claire Branson mustered a smile. "It's nice to meet you too" she said as she took Sybil's hand.

The evident awkwardness that hung in the air was broken by the sudden appearance of Bronagh holding Cian.

"I'm sorry to be so late but Cian had made such mess and I had to bathe him" she said breathlessly. Then laughing she said. "But I guess no one wants to hear about that."

Smiling she looked at Sybil who was struck at just how beautiful Bronagh was which was something Tom hadn't mentioned. "It's a pleasure to meet you Sybil" and stepped forward to hug her forgetting that Cian was between them.

Laughing Sybil responded "It's wonderful to meet you Bronagh" and then patting the top of Cian's head "and this little one too."

* * *

Tom pushed his chair back a bit and smugly smiled as he listened to the lively conversation around him. He had been right that an informal dinner was the proper one for this meeting between Sybil and his family. His mother's reserve had melted as the evening progressed and she had become almost as lively as Oonagh and Bronagh. Carrick had resorted to his usual charming self and told delightful stories. Cian was passed around to be held by everyone including Sybil who held him long after he fell asleep. It was Tom thought by all measures a wonderful evening with good food, good company, good conversation and Sybil.

It had been a wonderful evening thought Sybil as she readied herself for bed. Oonagh was everything she could want in a sister, Carrick had been delightful and Tom's mother had finally warmed to her. Bronagh was … Sybil finished brushing her hair and set the brush down on her vanity table. Bronagh had certainly been pleasant, warm and welcoming.

* * *

Sybil walked across the room and sat in the lounge chair, her favorite spot to sit and think. When Bronagh had decided to put Cian to bed Sybil had come with her not really sure why. To talk to Bronagh alone? To see more of the house? Sybil wasn't really sure.

Cian's nursery was lovely and Sybil was surprised when Bronagh told her that Tom had done all the work to make it so. She had known since Roland Quirk had reported that Tom had married and had a baby that the child wasn't his. Unlike Roland, Sybil knew when Tom had arrived back in Ireland and therefore knew that it was impossible Tom had fathered the child. But it had heightened her curiosity as to who the woman was and why Tom would marry a woman carrying the child of another man.

"I had no idea Tom could do such work" Sybil had responded as she looked at the rocking chair, the white wainscoting, the painted clouds on the ceiling, and of course the toy chest.

Afterwards, Bronagh offered to show Sybil the rest of the house which Sybil readily accepted confiding that she had recently purchased a townhouse, one not nearly as large or as grand and lovely as this one, but one that needed refurbishing. With that in mind Sybil noted the architectural details, the paint, the wainscoting, the mantelpieces, the flooring.

However it was in Tom's bedroom that a detail, not an architectural one, had most captured Sybil's attention. She had noted the various photographs in Tom's office but it was the one on his nightstand that unsettled her. Like many of the other photographs this one had Tom, Bronagh and Cian but there was something different about this one where the three of them were somewhere outdoors surrounded by apple trees.

There was something about the way Tom was looking at Bronagh who was handing Cian to him.

Seeing that photograph Sybil thought Tom hadn't told her everything about his relationship with Bronagh.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: My first story to get 200 reviews! I can't tell you what that means to me. So thank you heartily.**

Tom rushed into the house thinking why of all days did one of the printers break down today. Fixing the thing had cost him two hours and now if he didn't bathe and change clothes quickly he'd be late getting to Mrs. Levinson's house. He could hear faint strains of his mother's voice coming from the kitchen. Looking at his watch once again he thought he'd hurry upstairs and then do a quick hello on his way out.

Reaching the landing of the second floor he heard muffled sounds of crying coming from Cian's room. He stood still for a moment hoping Cian would go back to sleep but the sounds continued. Opening the door Tom was surprised to see Bronagh sitting in the rocking chair with a sleeping Cian nestled against her chest. He thought of quietly shutting the door but then realized it was Bronagh that was crying.

"Bronagh" he called quietly, his voice barely above a whisper so as not to wake Cian. "Is something that matter with Cian?"

Bronagh quickly wiped away her tears but rather than look up at Tom, she simply shook her head no. Yet Tom knew Bronagh well enough to know that something was seriously wrong for her to be sitting here crying.

"Bronagh what's the matter? What's upset you?"

She looked down at her son and then closed her eyes as she gently kissed the top of his head. "It's … it's Connor" she finally said.

Connor, the solicitor with the firm above the stationery shop, had seemed quite sweet on Bronagh. Although Tom had seen him around the stationery shop a few times it wasn't until Bronagh's birthday party that they had actually talked. In fact, as Tom now recalled, Connor had been quite congenial although it was obvious that his interest was Bronagh. Bronagh had been quite excited that he'd invited her to a Broadway play and then dinner afterwards as a birthday gift. Tom frowned as he recalled that the play and dinner outing was supposed to be sometime next week.

"What did Connor do?"

Bronagh, still avoiding Tom's gaze, curled her lips as she blinked back tears. "He came into the shop today and told me … told me …" she was now quivering as she tried to hold back the tears. "He said he had thought I was a widow but that now he knew … that … that …" her sniffles intensified "he said he could never court someone like me. That I was …" the tears started flowing down her cheeks.

"Oh Bronagh" Tom knelt beside the rocking chair, took hold of her hand and proceeded to gently ran his thumb across the back of her hand not sure if he wanted her to repeat whatever foul things Connor had said to her.

"He said Cian was a … he called him a … bastard and that … that ... he could never …" Bronagh looked down at her sleeping son and once again kissed the top of his head.

Tom gently ran his hand across Bronagh's forehead and down her cheek trying to hide the sudden rage he felt. He looked at this kind, lovely woman and the sweet child he felt fatherly toward. Neither of them deserved such vile treatment. Lifting Cian from Bronagh's arms, Tom put him into his crib.

"Bronagh" Tom took both of her hands in his and raised her up until she was standing. She looked at him, her face red and blotchy from crying. Tom wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as she nestled her head against his chest.

* * *

Sybil was relieved to see the last of her patients leave. It had been a day of cuts and scrapes, infected wounds, twisted ankles and broken bones. She smiled thinking that at least those were things that could actually be healed. But her smile was short lived as the quietness was shattered by the sound of rain drops splattering against the room's sole window. She gathered up all the completed charts and headed towards the reception desk hoping she'd find an unwanted umbrella there.

Tom, standing by the reception desk talking to the young Irish lass working as the receptionist, looked up at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Looking at Sybil in the long gray dress with the white apron and her dark hair mostly covered by the white headscarf, Tom took a sharp intake of breath.

"Tom?" Her dazzling smile at the surprise of seeing him here was suddenly replaced by concern. He had been rather mysterious when he called last night to cancel their dinner plans with her grandmother claiming there was a family matter he had to attend to. "You're not feeling ill are you?"

He shook his head. "It's just that … seeing you dressed like that reminds me of the war and Downton."

She set the folders on the desk and then ran her hands down the sides of her long white apron, her face momentarily clouded as if deep in thought. As if brushing aside whatever thoughts she had, she looked up at him and smiled "And just like then you're here to drive me home?"

He laughed. "I am actually. I had to deliver some printed materials and when I realized out near I was to the clinic I thought I'd give you a lift home."

Luckily he had found a place in front of the building to park the truck he used for making printing delivers. Noticing that Sybil was scanning the street for his motor car he grinned as he opened the truck's passenger door for Sybil. "Not quite like your father's fine Renault my lady."

Settling herself down in the seat, she wiped her hand across the big fat raindrops that were scattered across she shoulders of her dress. Raising one eyebrow as she looked at Tom, then in her most _Lady Sybil_ voice said "Well with this rain I can't complain about the vehicle but really Branson next time don't forget the umbrella."

"I believe holding the umbrella is Carson's job my lady."

Sybil could barely contain her laughter. "Really Branson I thought I gave the orders" she retorted.

Grinning, Tom slid into the driver's seat thinking how easy it was for them to banter back and forth and it continued as they made their way uptown. As they neared Mrs. Levinson's apartment building, Tom turned onto east 71st and eased the truck into the first parking spot he saw.

"Making another delivery?" she asked.

Tom shook his head. "I just want explain about last night."

* * *

Sitting at the small table that served as a temporary desk, Sybil leaned back in the wooden chair once again trying to stifle a yawn. It was an exercise in futility as she finally succumbed to a big deep yawn. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece wondering if she had time to go home and take a good long soak in the clubfoot tub before meeting Tom. Surprised at how quickly the afternoon had past, she sighed as she realized that was certainly out of the question. As it was she'd be lucky to finish this work before she needed to leave if she didn't want to keep him waiting.

It had been almost two weeks since Tom had surprisingly come back into her life. Much of that time had been spent getting reacquainted with Tom. Sometimes they'd just sit in her grandmother's parlor or take a long walk in Central Park and talk far into the night. One evening they had rented a rowboat and Tom had displayed his lack of rowing skills as he tried to maneuver around Central Park Lake.

There had also been hours spent getting to know his family, both the Irish one and the New York one. Sybil sighed thinking she still wasn't sure how Tom's mother felt about her.

"Sybil did you finish inventorying all the silverware?" Charles asked as he entered the room. As usual he was tieless and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Although he employed a crew of men to handle the heavier chores of packing and moving crates and furniture he wasn't one to sit idly by just directing things.

"Just finished the last box Charles" Sybil answered as she taped the box closed and labeled it "Silver candlesticks".

"That makes five boxes of decorative silver items" she said as she sat back in the chair and looked up at the man that had become so much more than just her boss, he was her mentor and friend.

Charles plopped down in one of the two armchairs that flanked the fireplace. "I think we'll have this wrapped up by Thursday."

She nodded as she looked around the room that had been used as a parlor but was now filled with crates and boxes. "I think this job has been the easiest one" she said. "No collections of oddities or cabinets and drawers filled with dirty dusty scary things" she laughed.

"I thought it was the oddball stuff that mesmerized you" Charles joked. "It's what keeps you working for me."

She laughed. "It's surprising the things people collect isn't it? I remember when I was little I had a little wooden box that I called my treasure box. I shudder to think what I considered treasures then."

"I imagine odds and ends that no one else would know their importance" he responded.

Her eyes widened at his comment. "You know me too well."

He chuckled. "My Sally has a treasure box. It has the most remarkable things. That is the few things she's actually let me see."

A bright little girl of long limbs and shiny dark hair, Sally was Charles' six year old daughter. He always said it was extraordinary how much Sally was like her mother who had died two days after her birth. Martha had told Sybil that after his wife's death Charles had given up his job as a curator at the Met and became a recluse. He had finally emerged from the depths of his grief about two years later and began his work as an estate appraiser.

"I'll have to ask Sally about her treasures the next time I see her." Sybil stood up to take off the smock that kept her clothes free from the dust and dirt although this house had been so well taken care of even the smock was clean. She folded it and neatly laid it over the back of the chair. She looked at Charles. "I'm meeting Tom at the 67th street house."

Charles suddenly looked rather serious. "We haven't talked about this but are you planning on working here much longer?"

Sybil looked rather startled at his question. "Is there … um …" she ran her hand across her forehead and down her cheek. "I didn't think there was a timeline for my working for you" she finally managed to say.

"No … no." Now it was Charles that seemed uncomfortable. "I just thought with Tom here now you'd soon get married."

"We haven't really talked about marriage yet. I guess it's just been such a surprise getting together and with his mother here it's been … well getting to know his family." She chewed on her lower lip something she had done since a little girl whenever she was nervous. "But even if, I mean when, we get married I'll still work here."

Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "Unless you're saying you don't think a married woman should work?"

He stood up and walked over to her, reaching out with his hand touching her shoulder. "Of course not it's just that so many husbands don't want-"

"Tom's not like that" Sybil interrupted. "It's one of the things that attracted me to him, he thinks married women should be able to work if they want."

"And you want to?"

"Of course I do Charles."

* * *

Tom paused in front of the townhouse and checked the notecard on which Sybil had written the address. He looked up at the curtainless windows of the limestone townhouse which appeared to be deserted and wondered why Sybil had asked him to meet her here. Shrugging his shoulders, he bounded up the short stairway to the recessed front door but there was no answer to his knock. He stepped back on to the porch and leaned around trying to see into the house from one of the tall front windows but the window was too far away to afford a good look and the only thing he could see was a fireplace with a white mantle on the far wall.

He walked back down the stairs and stood on the pavement looking at the building. It wasn't as large or as elegant looking as Carrick's townhouse. but it fit in with the rest of the neighborhood although the house itself looked a little neglected. Like Carrick's the stairs led up to a porch and the front door; however, unlike Carrick's there were no stairs leading down to the lower level of this house. Here most of the lower level was below ground with only two wide windows that were maybe six inches above ground level. A waist high wrought iron fence enclosed a small garden bordered by the stairs leading to the front door on one side and similar stairs on the other side that led to the neighbor's front door and filled the area between the house and the pavement. Although calling the patch of dirt with weeds and a few scraggly plants a garden was quite a stretch.

Looking once again at his watch, Tom wondered where Sybil was. He looked up and down the pavement before once again bounding up the stairs and sitting down on the edge of the porch. It was only a minute or two later that Sybil came breathlessly up the pavement. "Sorry I'm late" she said as she neared the steps.

Tom's curiosity rose as Sybil pulled a key from her purse and opened the front door. They stepped into an entrance hall where the air was stale and dust particles danced in the sunlight pouring through an arched window above the front door. The rectangular room was rather large for an entrance hall with a dirty black and white tiled floor and dominated by wide wooden stairway that began against the far right wall. There was a large arched doorway on the left while a tiled hallway ran from the front door, and on to the back of the house.

Tom grabbed Sybil's arm. "What are we doing here Sybil?"

She turned and smiled at him before walking through the arched doorway and into a large empty room. Sybil lifted both of her arms and twirled around. "Won't this make a lovely sitting room?"

Tom looked at the wood floor that was in desperate need of polishing, the two tall grimy windows, and the faded and peeling wallpaper on the walls. Like the entrance hall the room needed a good cleaning. Like the entrance way this room had a sad air of neglect. "I guess so if someone's willing to put in a lot of work."

Sybil beamed as she looked at him. "I knew you'd see the potential."

Now his curiosity was beginning to turn into panic. "Sybil why are you showing me this house?"

She walked over and threaded her arm through his. Her smile was absolutely dazzling as she looked at him. "I think it will make a lovely first home for us."

"Us?" He was astounded.

"Well we have to live somewhere once we're married" she replied.

"But … but" he struggled. "I'm not really sure I can afford something like this. And we haven't discussed-"

"Tom!" she suddenly turned quite serious. Taking a few steps away from him she looked around the room before turning back towards him, her hands firmly planted on her hips. "Are you implying your proposal is no longer-"

He rushed over to her. "Of course I still want to marry you."

"Well then" she smugly replied.

"When I came here I brought a things from Downton … my jewelry and" she licked her lip "and things. Things I thought I'd sell and use the money to support myself and pay for finding you."

Tom swiveled around looking at the room and then walked over to the large arched doorway between this room and what he assumed was the dining room. There was a built in cabinet that ran the length of the left wall with various sized drawers on the lower half and glass fronted shelves on the upper half. A hole in the ceiling was the logical place for a chandelier.

He turned back towards Sybil and sounding incredulous asked "How much stuff did you bring from Downton?"

She dismissed his question with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand as if that was of no importance. Then running her hand across the fireplace mantle she said "Anyway, Charles suggested that I might want to buy property instead of putting so much money in the bank or investing in stocks. It's a much more lucrative investment as your Carrick can attest."

"You've talked to Carrick about this?"

"Not about this particular house but investing in property in general. That's how he started making his fortune. Anyway, I bought a townhouse in lower Manhattan with two flats that I'm renting out so I have some income. And then before we met again I bought this place with the idea of renting it out. It needs some work so I got a really good deal on it."

This time her smile was a bit hesitant. "But now it might be perfect for us. That is if we are still going to get married?"

"Are you sure an independent woman of means wants to get married?"

For a moment she felt a bit of panic until he gave her that lopsided grin of his. "How about a week from Saturday?" he said.

"A … a … week from … Saturday?" she stuttered.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews of the last chapter. As always your comments have given me things to think about. I had planned on making this the last chapter but there are things I wanted to clear up and it was getting way too long but we are very very near the end of the story!**

The idea of marrying "a week from Saturday" had run into roadblocks. The priest Tom had befriended at the small chapel near his house had been emphatic that he couldn't possibly do the wedding so quickly. He might be able to overlook the fact that Sybil wasn't Catholic but he still wanted to meet with her a couple of times before he'd agree with conducting the wedding ceremony.

When he had delivered the news to Sybil Tom had almost added _at least this time it's not your sisters chasing us down and dragging you back_ but had wisely kept silent on that thought. However to his surprise Sybil didn't seem upset about waiting three weeks.

"It's probably better this way" Sybil offered as she shuffled her foot across the layers of old wall paper littering the floor. "We need to do so much work here before we can possibly move in and I can't see starting our married life living at either my grandmother's or Carrick's."

"We'd still have our own bedroom."

"Yes … but…" Sybil could feel her face reddening.

"Embarrassed that your snoring will keep my mother awake?"

"I don't snore" Sybil blurted out in _Lady Sybil_ mode.

Displaying that appealing lopsided grin of his he countered "So then what's the problem?"

"Tooooom"

Laughing at her obvious distress, she playfully swatted his shoulder. Any further banter was ended by someone knocking on the front door.

"Ma!" Tom called out in surprise as his mother, followed by Bronagh, then Oonagh, each carrying mops and pails filled with cleaning supplies, breezed into the entrance hall.

Looking with distain at the dirty tiled floor that looked more brown and speckled than black and white his mother announced "We're here to help."

"How wonderful of you all" Sybil exclaimed to the offer of unexpected help. "Heaven knows we need all the help we can get if we're to move in here in three weeks."

A couple of hours later with the upstairs bathroom now sparkling clean, the tiled entrance hall gleaming and the last of the layers of peeling and cracked wall paper removed, there was another unexpected knock on the front door.

"Martha!" Tom exclaimed as he opened the door to find Sybil's grandmother standing on the front porch alongside two large wicker baskets.

Gesturing to the two large wicker baskets, Martha barked in that loud voice of hers "I thought some nourishment might be in order."

"Always!" a chipper Tom responded.

Stepping out on the porch to pick up one of the baskets Tom suddenly became aware of a man halfway up the steps with another man on the pavement each of them holding onto one end of a table.

"What the-" he began but was quickly interrupted by Martha.

"I'm too old and rickety to sit on a dirty floor and eat lunch."

"So you brought your own table" his eyes widened as he realized there were six chairs lined up on the pavement "and chairs?" his voice a mixture of amusement and astonishment.

"Just being practical Tom" she breezily responded as she waltzed past him and into the house.

Tom, carrying both wicker baskets, scurried down the hall and into the kitchen where Sybil was busy scouring the sink.

"Your grandmother has brought lunch" he announced as he set the baskets on the counter.

"Oh how wonderful! I'm famished."

"And …" Tom looked in amusement down the hallway "she came with her own table and chairs."

"What?" A baffled Sybil turned around just as her grandmother entered the kitchen quickly followed by the two men carrying the table.

Martha looked around the kitchen. "I think that's the perfect spot" she said as she pointed to the alcove off the kitchen that extended out the back of the house. The men sat the long white table where Martha directed and then left to retrieve the matching chairs.

"You said you wanted something practical as a gift" Martha said. "Certainly a kitchen table and chairs count as something practical."

"Of course it is Gran" Sybil enthused. She walked over and hugged her grandmother. "It's quite thoughtful."

"Did I hear someone say there's food?" an eager Oonagh came bounding into the kitchen.

"Slices of ham and cheese tarts, bacon and onion tarts, turkey sandwiches, boiled eggs, carrot and celery sticks, sliced tomatoes, pickles" Martha began reciting the contents of her baskets. "Bottles of apple cider and a jug of lemonade."

If Tom was a gambling man he would have bet Martha's wedding present would have been something terribly expensive, made of crystal or silver and of no real use in the life he and Sybil were going to lead. So he was grateful for her practical gift of a kitchen table and chairs and amused by her presentation but he was completely baffled by how well Martha and his mother bonded over slices of bacon and onion tarts and boiled eggs.

* * *

Sybil's entrance into the shop was announced by the muted sound of a bell that hung over the door. She had barely stepped two or three feet into the shop when an older woman dressed in finery appropriate for working in such an exclusive shop approached her and asked in a hushed voice if she could be of service.

Giving the woman one of her finest smiles, Sybil replied "Although I want to buy some note cards this looks like such a lovely shop I'd really like to just look around."

As she always did, the woman had noted Sybil's dress and demeanor and hearing the posh British accent only cemented her appraisal that Sybil was a woman of class. Years of working in the shop had also taught her to quickly judge the level of service a potential customer might want and in this case determined correctly that Sybil preferred to look around on her own without a sales clerk hovering by her side.

Standing in the aisle between shelves of artfully arranged boxes displaying the finest of writing paper, some decorated with gold embossed lettering or hand-engraved letters and borders while others were embellished with hand-pressed or watercolored flowers, Sybil closed her eyes and imagined being back at Mr. Havery's shop in Ripon. She remembered being ten years old and purchasing for the first time stationery engraved with her initials and feeling so grownup. There had been so much to choose from and she had settled for creamy linen paper with her entwined initials embossed in gold. She smiled thinking that the first letter she had written on that wonderful paper had been to her Grandmama. Sybil thought of all those years of writing notes and thank-you cards initiated not just by birthday presents or Christmas gifts but also by the slightest of events like invitations to tea or a dinner party. Opening her eyes she realized that since she had been in New York there had been very little need for monogrammed stationery.

Mrs. Hallowell smiled as Sybil presented her purchases. Noting the box of note cards and their matching envelopes decorated with watercolored sprigs of lavender and the box of linen paper hand-engraved with the letter _S_ she knew she had been correct in her estimation of this customer. It was only when Sybil asked if she could speak to Miss Curran that Mrs. Hallowell slightly raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

Bronagh was surprised when Mrs. Hallowell knocked on the door before opening it and announcing Sybil. Spying the package in Sybil's hand wrapped in the shop's silver and gold colored paper and tied with a gold ribbon she thought Sybil just wanted to say hello and let her know she had patronized the shop. There was no doubt in Bronagh's mind that Sybil was trying hard to woo Tom's family and by extension Carrick and herself.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?"

"I could spend an hour or so just browsing at all the lovely items" Sybil smiled as she stepped into the office. "These notecards I bought are so beautiful, they'll make wonderful thank you notes."

As Sybil stood just inside the doorway looking around the small room Bronagh realized that Sybil hadn't just popped by to say hello or discuss the _lovely_ products offered by Carrick's.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you Bronagh. I'd …" Sybil paused seeming quite unsure of herself now that she was here.

Bronagh was surprised by Sybil's nervousness since during the past couple of weeks they had been around each other quite a bit although they had never been alone with each other for more than a minute or two.

"I don't get many visitors here." Bronagh gestured for Sybil to sit in the room's only armchair which sat at an angle to the large walnut desk that dominated the room. "It'll be nice to take a break."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Bronagh asked. "It won't take but a minute or two to fix."

"That would be lovely" Sybil replied as she took her seat. While Bronagh busied herself with fixing the tea, Sybil looked around the room. The stuffed armchair with its boldly patterned print of colorful flowers was a shock of color in an otherwise overwhelmingly dull brown room. All the furniture in the sparsely furnished room, the large desk, a matching credenza, a tall bookcase, was made of dark wood. The walls, bare except for a large calendar hanging near the desk, were painted beige and even the oval braided rug that covered most of the open floor space was in muted shades of brown and tan. It was not a room that Sybil could imagine spending much time in.

Nor did the room reflect Bronagh thought Sybil. She thought of Bronagh as practical and efficient but certainly not dull. She had an easy laugh and was smart and could hold her own in conversations. She was certainly well-read and had a professed love of literature. Sybil could easily see why Bronagh and Tom were friends. At that thought, Sybil's attention turned to the only personalized items in the room, the framed photographs on the desk and the credenza.

From her vantage point Sybil couldn't see the actual photographs on the desk but she had a good view of those sitting on top of the credenza and one particular photograph drew Sybil's attention. There was something about the way Tom looked that reminded her of that photograph on his nightstand that she had seen the night Bronagh showed her Carrick's house. It was that photograph that had set Sybil wondering about Tom and Bronagh, a nagging feeling that had brought Sybil here today.

"Do you take milk or sugar?" The question hung in the air as Sybil sat staring at the photograph. Wondering what had captured Sybil's attention, Bronagh followed Sybil's line of sight to a photograph. Bronagh, her face lit with laughter, was sitting beside a relaxed looking Tom, his legs outstretched while he leaned back with his elbows firmly planted on the ground, his face equally glowing with laughter, and a sprawled Cian laying half on the grass and half across Tom's chest. It was a lovely photograph Bronagh thought of the three of them. Bronagh's eyes widened as she realized someone looking at it would think it depicted a charming scene of a young family. Is that what Sybil saw?

Bronagh felt her face flush and quickly turned her attention back to the hot plate and the tea pot. But that seed had been planted and she felt her hand shake as she reached for the tea cups. What had Tom told Sybil about the two of them? After pouring two mugs of tea, no fine china here in her office, she placed the mugs, a small plate with slices of pound cake, and a chipped sugar bowl on a tray. "Not quite as elaborate as the tea you took Oonagh and I to" she said recalling the recent afternoon Sybil had treated them to tea after an hour or so wandering around Macy's. "I don't think I've ever been to such an elaborate tea" she continued.

It had been like having tea at one of the fine London hotels or a very upscale tea shop thought Sybil. It might not have seemed so out of the ordinary to her but to Oonagh and Bronagh it had been a rare delight reminding Sybil once more of the very different lives Oonagh and Bronagh had led. A point made so very clear the night of her birthday dinner when a very bubbly Bronagh had surprised Sybil by saying she had never had such a wonderful birthday celebration before. The small dinner party with only three guests outside of Tom's mother and sister and Carrick paled in comparison to the extravagance that had always marked Sybil's birthdays.

Taking her mug from the tray Sybil chuckled. "It was quite elaborate wasn't it? They do seem to make such a production of it here much more so than at home."

"I really enjoyed it Sybil. Actually the whole afternoon was delightful." Bronagh set the tray on her desk and moved around to sit at her desk chair. It had been a wonderful afternoon with much laughter and Bronagh could see why Tom had fallen for the dark-haired beauty.

Bronagh took a sip of tea waiting for Sybil to get around to whatever it was she wanted to talk about but Sybil took her time for as they drank their tea she nervously fiddled with her tea spoon while sneaking peeks at the photograph.

"You have some wonderful photographs" raising her face to look at the photograph on the credenza Sybil finally broke the silence. "Tom tells me Carrick has become quite the camera buff and Cian is his favorite subject."

Setting her mug on the tray she nodded towards the photograph of Tom and Cian. "That one is especially lovely."

There was something in Sybil's eyes as she looked at the photograph that confirmed Bronagh's inkling as to what had driven her here today. It was a look that Sybil had had when she had seen the photograph, the one from that delightful day at the apple farm, that was prominently displayed on Tom's nightstand.

Bronagh smiled looking at the photograph that now captured Sybil's attention. "It was taken on one of the first warm days of spring. We'd had a picnic and Cian stood up for the first time" she looked towards Sybil "using Tom as his prop but then before Carrick could snap a shot of that Cian fell over Tom's chest."

"It seems like you and Tom have had a lot of good times" Sybil quietly murmured.

Bronagh's smile vanished as she looked at Sybil who now sat looking down at her lap, her hands fiddling with her dress. In the short time she had known Sybil she had come to like her. Bronagh glanced at the photograph and then at Sybil. Getting up and walking around to the front of her desk, Bronagh leaned back against it so that she was standing directly in front of Sybil.

"Sybil" she said quietly.

"Tom and I have a shared childhood history Sybil. I grew up on a farm with five very overbearing brothers. All through my childhood I looked forward to Christmas time and the summer when Tom's family would come to our farm. For years Tom and one of his bothers would end up staying with us the whole summer. Of course we had to do chores around the farm but we'd find time to have fun. We'd go berry picking so my Ma could make pies but we'd eat most of them before we got home, we'd splash and play in the pond on our farm or we'd take turns riding an old bike that Tom found abandoned on the road and fixed up."

As Bronagh talked, Sybil had raised her face to look at her and as she talked Sybil noticed the dreamy look on Bronagh's face as she recounted these adventures.

"But most of all Tom and I would spend hours talking about books, sharing those few precious books we had. We'd pool the few coins we had and walk to town to buy those magazines with the serials" Bronagh continued. "Those books opened up a whole different world for us."

Bronagh looked down at her dress and wiped away some imaginary lint. "We'd talk about the grand adventures each of us wanted to have when we grew up. For those hours we talked or read we weren't two kids whose futures were so limited. For those summer days I really thought I could maybe go to university or sail off and see the ancient wonders of the world or be something more than …"

She looked up and Sybil could see the faint tears in Bronagh's eyes. "But Sybil children like Tom and I only had such talk and not much chance of making those things come true."

Bronagh wiped away a stray tear. She gazed for a minute at the photographs on the credenza before turning back towards Sybil. "Last year, for very different reasons and in different ways, Tom and I were two lost and broken souls. We found comfort in each other like we had as childhood friends" she paused and took a deep breath. "And for our own individual reasons we came here to start over."

She reached out her hands and took hold of Sybil's. "Each of us made a new life here but one thing I know for sure Sybil is that you never left Tom's heart. Whatever you might think or fear I'm no threat Sybil. He loves you truly and deeply."

"Oh Bronagh" Sybil with tears in her eyes, stood up and embraced Bronagh.

* * *

Although Sybil wouldn't describe it as _trying to woo_ Tom's family, Sybil had spent time getting to know them and, in turn, they getting to know her. Most of the time she had been with Tom like the evening everyone went to the conservatory water in Central Park where they cheered on Tom and his model speedboat. There was the Sunday Tom had driven everyone out to a quiet beach on Long Island where she, Tom, Bronagh and Oonagh had frolicked in the cool waters of the Atlantic while Carrick and Mrs. Branson watched from the blanket spread on the sand. Little Cian, who relished bath time and splashing water, wasn't quite as enamored with the ocean but did find crawling on the sand amusing and kept the adults busy chasing after him. And of course there were those evenings where she joined them for dinner at Carrick's house where there was plenty of conversation.

On a rare Sunday that Tom had to finish writing an article, Sybil took Mrs. Branson and Oonagh to the Metropolitan Museum where Sybil was surprised at Mrs. Branson's interest in ancient Greek and Roman art. Afterwards they ate a late lunch at a nearby café. Sybil was thrilled when Mrs. Branson suggested they maybe they could spend another afternoon there before she and Oonagh returned to Ireland.

Because that afternoon had gone so well, Sybil asked Mrs. Branson if she'd give her a few cooking lessons. She had been working with Martha's cook on some basic skills like how to cook a roast of beef or chicken but as a surprise for Tom, Sybil wanted to learn how to cook some of Tom's favorite Irish dishes.

"I guess coddle would be a dish for Saturday or Sunday" Sybil remarked as she put the baking dish into the oven. It had taken almost an hour to peel the potatoes and onions and brown the sausages and bacon and now it had to bake for at least three hours. No way could she do that when she returned home from work or they'd be eating dinner at midnight.

Sybil removed her apron and tucked her meticulously written recipe card into the little box she had bought just to hold her recipes. "So you promise you won't tell anyone I made it?"

Mrs. Branson smiled at her soon-to-be daughter-in-law. "Of course not. Just like I didn't tell them about the cottage pie or the colcannon."

"Good" replied Sybil as she stood up, ready to return to work. Charles had been very good about letting her take a couple of hours during the day to work with Mrs. Branson.

Mrs. Branson walked with Sybil down the hallway to the entrance hall. "Sybil could we talk for just a few minutes?"

Surprised by her serious tone, Sybil replied "Of course" although she felt a bit of dread. Sybil had thought the time spent cooking with Mrs. Branson had been a good way for them to become more comfortable with each other. Although most of their conversation had pertained to cooking, there had been times of discussing this and that but mostly about Tom.

Perched on the edge of the sofa in the parlor, Sybil took a deep breath trying to steel herself for whatever Mrs. Branson had to say.

"I'll make no secret that I wasn't thrilled when Tom told me about you" Mrs. Branson began. "Partly, I was afraid that you were just rebelling against your parents and I feared you'd soon run back to England leaving a heartbroken Tom. And partly I was afraid for the pair of you in Ireland. You'd be living in poverty and money problems are not a good thing in a marriage. His job at that paper didn't pay much and you'd have never gotten a job as a nurse. Tom had been gone for so long that he didn't realized how terrible everything had become."

"I don't think he saw how hard it would be for you, an English woman, an aristocrat, a Protestant to be accepted. He was so blinded by his love that he …" she paused as she looked down at her lap. "I'm ashamed to say that even some of his family wouldn't have accepted you."

"But here in New York it's different. Religion doesn't matter. Nationality doesn't matter. Tom's done so well" she smiled thinking how proud she was that Tom had actually made something of himself. "And you" she looked at Sybil "you have a job that you like."

Mrs. Branson stood up and walked over to an end table where she picked up a small package. "I'm so glad that I came here and have had the chance to get to know you. I've watched you and Tom together and it warms my heart to see that you love him as much as he loves you."

She looked down at the small package in her hands. "I've never had much to pass along to my children. When I married my mother gave me a brooch that had belonged to her mother and I gave that to my older daughter when she married." She fingered her wedding ring. "And when Oonagh gets married I'll give her this ring that her father placed on my finger so many years ago."

She held out the package to Sybil. "You'll soon be my daughter and I'd like you to have this."

Sybil's hands shook as she took the package nicely wrapped with white paper and a blue bow. Carefully removing the bow, she pulled at the tape to remove the wrapping paper.

In the box were three handkerchiefs. Two were lace trimmed white handkerchiefs while the third was embroidered with a small purple flower in each corner.

"My grandmother made those for me as a wedding present."

Sybil's eyes teared up at Mrs. Branson's kind gesture. "I'll treasure these forever and I'll pass them on to my daughter."


	33. Chapter 33

**So here it is the final chapter.**

Sybil stepped back from the built-in wardrobe that ran the length of one long wall of the bedroom and with a sigh of relief stated "Well that's the last of it."

Surprised that Tom made no comment, especially in light of how much he had said when he and the men had carried the suitcases and trunks up the stairs, she glanced around but found to her surprise she was alone in the room. How had she been so involved in emptying the contents of her suitcases and trunks and placing her clothes in their proper places that she hadn't notice Tom leave she wondered. Walking to the other end of the long wardrobe, the end that was Tom's, she opened a drawer and blushed as she found it full of his neatly folded knickers and undershirts. It wasn't that she hadn't seen men in their underclothes, or for that matter naked, no she had seen plenty of that from her nursing, but this was different … it was Tom's intimate wear and she hadn't seen … she glanced over at the large bed and thought that when they returned here on Monday—

"Sybil? Are you fin-"

She had jumped at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry love didn't mean to startle you. Just wanted to see if you've finished unpacking."

She slowly wiped her hand across her forehead before turning to face him.

"What have you been busy doing?"

"Come see" he reached out for her hand and led her down the hallway to one of the smaller bedrooms. "I wasn't sure everything would fit but …"

She stepped into the room he had chosen to use as his office. "It looks just like it did at Carrick's" she remarked. "You even hung the seascapes in the same place and" she paused as she noted the framed photographs of Tom, Bronagh and Cian sitting on top of the credenza.

It's definitely the most complete room in the house!" she said as she thought of the rest of the house. Two of the bedrooms and the dining room were bare. Their bedroom was furnished only with the bed. Even the sitting room was barely presentable.

Tom noticed Sybil's gaze on the photographs on the credenza. "It's not quite complete. If you'll notice there's an empty spot on the desk" he pointed at the desktop which had a few papers on it and the silver desk clock that had been a Christmas gift from Carrick. "That's where I'll put a photograph from our wedding."

Sybil paused at the foot of the staircase to admire the transformation of the old, tired, dusty entrance hall. The black and white tiles sparkled in the sunshine pouring in through the transom window above the front door. The stairwell, like all the other hardwood floors in the house, had been refinished and polished and now glistened. It wasn't until the years of grime had been removed that one could see the intricate carving of the staircase railing. The built-in bench now topped with a dark green and gold colored cushion provided an inviting spot to sit and remove coats or shoes. The dark green of the cushion made by Mrs. Branson contrasted nicely with the light green paint of the walls.

There were still some things that were needed such as a coat rack and an umbrella stand and a long mirror so one could check their appearance before leaving the house would also be a nice touch thought Sybil. It would be nice to spend a Saturday browsing through second hand shops for such things and Sybil was sure she'd come up with a long list of other items that would be needed.

But such things could wait a bit. What had been important, especially while the rooms were vacant, was to refinish and polish the dark wide-planked hardwood floors and paint the walls and give the house a thorough cleaning and to this end they had all worked so hard. They had hired someone to do the floors but the rest of it had been done not just by her and Tom but his mother and sister and Bronagh too. Tom had hired some Irishmen in desperate need of work to help with removing layers of peeling and cracked old wallpaper and painting the walls. Some of those same men had also moved the office furniture from Carrick's house to here as well as the trunks and suitcases that held Tom and Sybil's clothes and personal items.

Sybil's smile vanished as she glanced into the sitting room. Like the rest of the house the floor was polished and there was a fresh coat of paint on the walls and the freshly painted white fireplace mantel with its raised floral designs was now the room's graceful focal point instead of a grimy eyesore. Sitting on one side of the mantel shelf was Carrick's wedding gift, a beautiful dome topped wooden clock decorated in red and gold lacquer. Charles' wedding gift, an oval waist high rosewood cabinet, sat gracefully between the two tall windows that faced the street. Its reddish hue complimented the light green walls and the dark green draperies made by Mrs. Branson. But with just a sofa flanked by one end table, the huge room looked so vacant. She walked into the room and pictured in her mind how it would look one day but for now the sofa would have to do.

She turned around and looked at Tom standing in the entrance hall.

"I don't think either of us could imagine all those years ago when you proposed that we'd be here" she said quietly.

At her words Tom pictured them standing underneath that brick archway remembering how it had taken every bit of courage he had to speak as he did.

 _I've told myself and told myself you're too far above me, but things are changing. When the war's over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started._

 _I'm a driver now, but I won't always be. I'll make something of myself I promise._

Sybil walked over and took his hand in hers. "You've kept your promise from that day. You have made something of yourself. I'm so proud of you Tom."

He kissed her forehead. "And what about you? Look what you've done."

She nodded towards the front door. "The next time we come through that door we'll be Mr. and Mrs. Branson."

* * *

"Remember the last time we sat like this?"

Imogen looked at Sybil and smiled. "It wasn't quite like this." Holding up her glass she said "there was no wine." Then giggling she continued "and here we are in the midst of that silly prohibition. Good thing your grandmother's like mine and hoarded some cases of wine."

Sybil laughed as she tipped her wine glass at Imogen. Remembering the night Imogen had come to Southampton to see her off, Sybil thought of how they had spent that night laughing and crying and plotting and how grateful she was for Imogen's friendship.

"That night was a turning point for me Syb. After listening to you, it made me realize I wanted to do something with my life.

"So here you are on your way to Hong Kong for your first posting with the Foreign Office!"

"It's not like I'm a spy or even part of the diplomatic corps, I'm just a lowly secretary."

"But still" Sybil began "it all sounds so exciting and exotic!"

Rather than sailing from London to Hong Kong, Imogen had decided to sail instead to New York to visit her grandmother, then, accompanied by an American cousin, take the train to San Francisco and sail from there to the Orient. To Sybil's utter delight and Imogen's great surprise her visit coincided with Sybil's wedding. Now, on this last night before Sybil became Sybil Branson, the two of them and Martha had dined together at Martha's flat. Wise as always, Martha had retired, claiming she needed a good night's sleep to be in top shape for tomorrow's activities, leaving Imogen and Sybil to chat far into the night.

"And you" Imogen remarked. "You have a career, you found Tom and tomorrow is your wedding."

"You know you did help make tomorrow possible.

"Me?"

"You helped me make my escape from Downton!"

"You'd have found some way to leave Syb." Imogen took a sip of wine. "Just maybe not with two trunks and a suitcase."

"Those two trunks were very import Im."

"So they never noticed those things you took?"

Sybil shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Remember that time we broke that vase and we searched the house and found one the same size and put it on the table in the broken one's place?"

Sybil laughed. "And Carson found a broken piece on the carpet that we had missed in cleaning up and he spent hours trying to figure out where it came from."

"And you finally told him Pharaoh must have dragged it in from somewhere."

"Just one of the many plots we did, most of which were never discovered."

Sybil suddenly became quiet. "I had a wonderful childhood Im. Downton was such a magical place to play, all those rooms to explore and the grounds … oh how I loved the gardens and the lake … the hiding places I found to escape my sisters or the nannies."

Imogen set her wineglass on the table that sat between her chair and Sybil's. "Is that nostalgia or a bit of regret?"

Sybil shook her head as she looked down at the floor. "Nostaglia maybe but not regret."

Sybil looked out the window. She could see people wandering in the park drawn there by the warm summer night. "As I got older, when tramping through the woods or catching tadpoles was no longer exciting, my sisters no longer wanted to play games with me … I became lonely."

"And I was lonely for a long time" she looked at her childhood friend. "Until Tom came. Then I had someone to talk to, someone who shared my interests, someone who challenged me, someone who encouraged me to be what I wanted to be."

"So what does your family say now that despite their efforts you're marrying Tom?"

Sybil shrugged. "I have no idea."

Imogen's eyes widen. "You mean you haven't heard from them?"

"Oh they write. At least Mama does, Mary a bit less frequently, Edith has stopped but it doesn't matter since I've never read any of their letters."

"You never read …" Imogen gasped in surprise.

Sybil shook her head. "Gran puts them in a box thinking I might want to read them one day. But I can't imagine that happening. They did a horrible thing Imogen. Not only to me but to Tom … worse of all really to him for they almost destroyed him."

She stood up and walked to the side cabinet and picked up the almost empty wine bottle. "There is nothing I have to say to them and nothing I want to hear from them."

* * *

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny, the sky a beautiful blue with no clouds in sight, a slight breeze keeping the temperature comfortable. It was a perfect summer morning for a wedding.

In the small sitting room, Martha, Sybil, and Imogen sat around the table enjoying breakfast. Between forkfuls of scrambled eggs and sausage, bites of toast, and sips of tea, the two young women, both dressed in their bathrobes, were like two school girls laughing and giggling and talking about the silliest of things.

Imogen looked at Martha and said "I can't believe Sybil doesn't have even the slightest touch of nervousness."

"Well Imogen including me and Tom there's only going to be nine of us, ten if Uncle Harold gets here in time, at the church."

"Just shows her confidence in her decision" Martha piped in much to Sybil's surprise.

"You know Gran you're right. I am confident in marrying Tom."

She took another bite of eggs then asked "What was your wedding like Gran?"

Martha set her cup of coffee down on the table. "Mine makes your wedding look like an elaborate affair since it was only me and your grandfather. We ran off to the Justice of the Peace."

"What!" both girls sputtered at the same time.

"Gran I never heard about that."

Martha gave a small head roll. "There was that difference in religion so we just thought the JP was our best option."

"Your grandfather was a good man Sybil. I never regretted marrying him." She reached over and patted Sybil's hand. "My wish is that your marriage will be as happy as mine."

"Oh Gran" Sybil said as tears filled her eyes.

"Now none of these tears. We have a wedding to attend."

* * *

Sybil took one last look in the mirror. "Oh Sybil you look so beautiful" Imogen gushed at the vision of white standing before.

"I know the dress is rather plain" Sybil said as she ran her hand down the side of the v-neck silk dress with the bodice overlaid with lace and three quarter length lace sleeves.

"It might be rather simple but it's definitely elegant" Imogen countered. "That necklace and earrings are just perfect for you and for that dress. The blue matches your eyes."

Sybil fingered the necklace and smiled. "They are beautiful aren't they. I've never worn them before. My grandfather bought them when I was born with the intention of my wearing them on my wedding day. I'm sorry he's not here to see me today."

Sybil wasn't sure if her grandmother would remember the necklace and earrings but Martha's reaction when she saw Sybil erased that notion.

"Now Gran none of those tears. We have a wedding to get to."

* * *

The tiny chapel could have been filled with their friends and acquaintances, most of whom were now gathering at Carrick's house for a wedding celebration, but Sybil and Tom had chosen instead to marry with only the very closest to them in attendance. Mrs. Branson, Oonagh, Bronagh, and Carrick sat in the left front pew and Martha Levinson, Harold Levinson, Imogen and Charles sat in the right front pew. The only wedding decoration was the two large urns filled with an array of white, purple and blue summer flowers sitting on either side of the altar. The flowers matched the smaller bouquet that Sybil would carry.

Tom, wearing a dark blue suit, looked quite relaxed as he stood chatting and laughing with the small group. As he had told the priest, who he had befriended when he first arrived in New York, this day was the culmination of years of hoping and dreaming. Confident in his and Sybil's love for each other, Tom felt he had no reason to be nervous.

The roaring first notes of the organ ended the banter among those gathered at the front of the church. Those seated stood and all eyes turned towards the back of the church where Sybil was beginning those steps down the aisle towards the altar. Her eyes were focused on Tom and her face was lit with a radiant smile. As she approached the last pew, Tom stepped towards her and took her hand. Together they walked the final steps to the altar.

* * *

It was an eclectic group, representing the many facets of Tom's and Sybil's New York lives, that filled Carrick's townhouse for the wedding celebration. The dining room table was covered in platters of food representing both Ireland and New York. But the music that filtered throughout the house was strictly the pipes and fiddles of the Irish played by an impromptu group from the print shop which had set up on the terrace. Sybil laughed as she watched one of Martha's card buddies, with the help of one of the Irish workers at the print shop, attempt an Irish jig.

"Do you think we've been here long enough to make our getaway" Tom whispered in Sybil's ear as he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, his head nestling on her shoulder.

"You mean there's someplace other than this party you'd like to be" Sybil coyly responded.

"I believe we have a suite waiting for us at the Plaza Hotel" Tom murmured back. Two nights at the Plaza Hotel, another wedding gift from Martha, would be their honeymoon.

"Does it have a band and food?" whispered Sybil.

"I think there's room service milady" Tom spoke as his hands began to wander down Sybil's hips. "That is if you're interested in food but I think I can guarantee you something better than that."

"Oh?" Sybil giggled before whispering "My suitcase is in Charles' car."

"Suitcase? You're taking a suitcase?"

"We'll be there the whole weekend Tom!"

"Yes but we'll be" he hesitated. "We'll be …"

Sybil giggled again at his floundering. "We'll have to eat sometime. I hear the dining room there is quite-"

"Room service" Tom whispered in her ear. "I don't plan on having to get dressed once we-"

She tilted her head to look at him. "You can't meet the room service waiter naked"

"They have bath robes don't they?"

He nibbled on her ear. "Really Sybil, you're thinking about food?"

She could feel herself blushing.

"Besides I plan on … well let's just say I'm planning on keeping you busy fulfilling all your wanton desires."

Sybil giggled again. "Tom that sounds like something from one of those trashy romance novels."

Tom laughed. "So I'm learning something new about my bride already, she's reads trashy romance novels."

"I do not read them Tom" Sybil tapped her foot to emphasize her comment. "Edith used to read them and maybe I glanced at one or two."

"So" Tom looked at her with that sly grin of his. "So maybe you can surprise me?"

"Tom!"

* * *

The gardens at Downton were at their peak of summer beauty. Wherever Mary looked she was surrounded by an array of blues, reds, pinks, yellows. The air was fragrant with their mixed scents. Despite the months of no replies to her letters, not even an acknowledgement of the invitation to her and Matthew's wedding, Mary had held out hope that Sybil would accompany Grandmama to Downton. She knew it was silly to have had such hopes yet … a tear fell down her cheek … after all she had known the day Sybil left for New York that she would not be coming back. But still … this day she had hoped. She had been uncharacteristically nervous, balling and unballing her hands into fists, stepping from one foot to another, waiting for the motor car to arrive from the railway station. Not until only her grandmamma alighted from the motor car were those hopes crushed.

 _Mary paced around her bedroom muttering to herself. It was another terrible day thanks to Edith, that wimpy … sniveling … conniving little… Of course she had gone running to the governess and then Mama. Oh she'd get even she'd … the bedroom door suddenly flew opened. Mary picked up a book ready to throw it if it was that … but it wasn't Edith it was Sybil who barreled through the doorway as if she was being chased, quickly shutting the door behind her. Sweet kind little Sybil holding a huge bouquet of flowers. They'll make you feel better Sybil sweetly said. Whenever I'm sad or upset I like to look at something beautiful like flowers. It's hard to remain upset if you're sitting in a garden._

Through tear filled eyes Mary looked around the garden. She saw a five year old Sybil chasing a rabbit. She heard a howling three year old Sybil when her fingers had been pricked by rose thorns. She saw a young Sybil sprawled on the grass reading a book. She heard an eight year old Sybil leaning into her ear whispering _I have a secret Mary._ Mary wiped away another tear that had fallen down her cheek. You were filled with secrets Mary thought.

She wasn't surprised that Sybil had found him. Underneath that exterior sweetness, Sybil was the most strong-willed stubborn person she had ever known.

Mary took a deep sigh and stood up, her hands wiping away any remaining signs of tears. Closing her eyes, tilting her head back, she took in a deep breath of the fragrant air. Be happy Sybil she thought.

Mary stopped at the garden gate and took one last long look around the garden. She whispered into the air "I'll never stop hoping that one day we'll see each other again Sybil."

* * *

"I didn't know you knew anyone in America" Carson said as he handed the envelope to Mrs. Hughes.

"You don't know everything about me Mr. Carson" she responded although she was just as curious as he was about the unexpected mail. Who did she know in America she wondered.

He stood still waiting for her to open the envelope but she just smiled at him and then left him standing there as she walked away from the servants hall and down the hall to her office.

Opening the envelope she was surprised to find a beautiful notecard decorated with a water colored drawing of purple flowers. The card was beautiful enough to frame she thought. Opening the card she found a very short and simple message.

 _It took longer than I thought it would. We'll always be grateful for what you did. Sybil Branson_

She set the notecard aside and looked at the photograph that had been enclosed. Smiling she thought they really do make a handsome couple.

 **There will be an epilogue.**


	34. Epilogue Part1

**Five Years Later**

The calendar had just turned the page to June but to Tom it already felt as if summer had arrived. It was a warm sunny day, a harbinger of the summer heat to come. While Cian was quite happy running around, Tom sought refuge from the bright sunshine on a bench shaded by the overhanging branches of a maple tree.

Cian's squeals of laughter brought a smile to Tom's face. He had been bringing Cian here to the park ever since they had moved to New York and now tried to do so at least once a week. It was where they'd fly kites and Cian would ride his bicycle. Towards the end of last summer Tom had rented a rowboat a couple of times but Cian hadn't quite perfected the art of sitting still in a rowboat and both of them had gone home quite wet.

Removing his Panama hat Tom brushed his hand over his forehead and then ran his fingers through his hair. He had never really adjusted to how hot New York was in summer. Even though it wasn't yet officially summer Tom was sure today was hotter than Dublin ever was even in the peak of summer. But it wasn't just the New York summers that bothered Tom for the winters were also much worse than in Dublin. Sure Dublin would be rainy or overcast but snow was rare. His mind drifted to that first winter here when the snowfall had been enchanting as it covered the city in a blanket of white making everything look beautiful. There had been the fun of snowball fights and building a snowman. Now when it snowed he was more likely to think of laboring through the piles of snow or the ensuing cold black slush of melting snow than the delights of snowball fights. The weather was just one more reason for …

"Uncle Tom … Uncle Tom" Cian shouts broke through Tom's reverie and he looked up to see Cian standing in front of him his blue eyes sparkling and his face brimming with glee.

"I caught one Uncle Tom" the boy cheerfully announced as he moved his clasped hands closer to Tom.

"And what might it be?" Tom raised his one brow as he looked at Cian's outstretched hands.

Cian parted his little fingers just enough that Tom could see swirling bits of gold and blue. "A butterfly Uncle Tom."

"Aaah" Tom cooed. "But surely you'll let him go?"

Cian wrinkled his forehead as he looked down at his hands. "I think Ma would like to see him."

"But son he won't survive long trapped in your hands. You'd best let him go and we'll just tell your Ma about him."

A crestfallen Cian looked back and forth between Tom and his still clasped hands.

"Next time we'll bring a jar and you can catch one and we'll take it to your Ma and then let him go" Tom gently suggested.

"Well …" Cian gave a long look at his clasped hands. Then slowly he opened one hand and the beautiful butterfly hovered briefly before flying off and landing on a nearby leaf. Cian tip-toed closer to the hanging branch and then watched as the butterfly once again took flight only this time landing on a much higher leaf covered branch before quickly taking flight once more and disappearing from sight.

The dismay Cian felt as watched the butterfly disappear was quickly replaced by the appearance of a squirrel. He looked at the squirrel and then as if appealing to Tom. Shaking his head, Tom uttered "we're not going to try catching him."

Taking a big breath in and crossing his little arms across his chest in a pose that Tom wasn't quite sure displayed displeasure or wistfulness Cian turned and stared at Tom. However there was no mistaking the look of glee when Cian's eyes widened and his lips turned into a broad smile at Tom's suggestion of getting an ice cream.

* * *

Much to Tom's amusement, Bronagh met them in the foyer holding a wet towel in her hands. "Stop right there" she commanded to her young son as he darted into the black and white tiled foyer. Kneeling beside him she proceeded to wipe a squirming Cian's hands and face.

Raising her brow she commented "Ah vanilla ice cream."

An astonished Cian's eyes grew large as he covered his mouth with his right hand while looking up at Tom.

"At least it wasn't chocolate" Tom chuckled. "I've learned my lesson on that."

"Thank heavens for that" Bronagh laughed. Finishing her task, a smiling Bronagh tickled Cian's belly and as he laughed she drew him in closer for a hug and kissed the top of his head. As she straightened up Cian ran up the staircase.

A smiling Bronagh held out the wet cloth. "Does Uncle Tom need his hands wiped?"

Giving her that lopsided grin of his he replied "Uncle Tom has mastered the art of eating an ice cream cone."

Bronagh laughed as the started down the hallway towards the kitchen. "I've got some freshly made lemonade" she called out "and plenty of ice."

Placing his Panama hat on top of the hall table his glance wandered to one of the silver framed photographs that graced the table top. He had seen this photograph probably a hundred times before, in fact there was a copy of this exact photograph on a table in his sitting room. Lifting the photograph from the table top, he couldn't help but smile as he looked at the four smiling faces captured for eternity in the photograph. In it he was wearing the Panama hat which he had purchased at a little shop on a narrow side street in downtown San Juan the day before.

"That was a grand time wasn't it" the sound of Bronagh's soft Irish lilt surprised Tom for he hadn't realized she had come back down the hallway to the foyer and was now standing beside him.

"Aye it was" he replied thinking of the wonderful two week steamship trip they'd taken last fall to San Juan. Just looking at the photograph made him think of palm trees swaying in the cool nighttime tropical breeze, walking barefoot in wet sand and listening to the mesmerizing sound of the ocean waves; of freshly picked plantains, pineapples, and oranges; of old men in white suits playing chess in whitewashed plazas. But more than all that the photograph reminded him of the contentment, the happiness, of close friendships especially this particular friendship between the two couples.

Bronagh handed him a glass of ice cold lemonade. "Not quite like those drinks in Puerto Rico."

Tom took a big gulp of the cold drink. "I'm not sure I could manage many more of those kinds of drinks." The steamship and the island had been full of Americans looking for an escape from prohibition hence a seemingly endless stream of liquor was available on both the ship and on the island.

"I think you did very well on that score … it was" Bronagh gave a slight chuckle "it was maybe the fried plantains, the rice and beans, the tres leches and those …" she scrunched up her face as if trying to recall the name of those sweet hand held pastries.

"All right, all right" Tom held out his hand. "I get the idea."

Then he stood up a bit straighter puffing up his chest a bit. "But I did get lots of exercise."

Bronagh's tilt of her head as she raised her brows and her closed lips formed a tight smile silently and playfully questioned Tom's statement. In return he chuckled before adding "well there was an awful lot of walking both on and off the ship, swimming in the ocean, and I seem to recall I was quite a figure out on the dance floor several nights."

"Ah yes the dancing" Bronagh laughed at the memory of seeing Tom on the dance floor. "I think we can chalk that up to too many rum punches."

Still laughing, Bronagh walked out of the foyer and into the sitting room. Taking a seat in one of the lounge chairs in front of the open bay window she motioned for Tom to take a seat.

As he took his seat in the other lounge chair that formed the seating area in front of the large bay window, Tom looked around the sitting room thinking how comfortable he was here and with the people who lived in this house and once again he wondered about leaving all this behind.

* * *

Despite the lateness there were a few pedestrians still out as Tom made his way home. He was grateful that the darkness as well as a breeze had brought some relief from the heat. Few stars were visible as the moon faded in and out of the clouds and combined with that breeze he wondered if it would storm during the night.

While he could usually do the walk between Carrick's townhouse and his own townhouse in fifteen minutes tonight he leisurely ambled along for there was no need to hurry home to an empty house. He paused several times marveling how much the area had changed in these past five years. Where there had been vacant lots new buildings had been built, mostly townhouses but a scattering of low apartment buildings that usually had stores or offices on the ground floor.

Under the gas streetlamp on the corner he paused and looked down and across the street to his townhouse. What had once been a rather sad looking townhouse with a scraggly yard of mud and weeds now looked warm and inviting. They had turned the house into a home and as he looked at his home he thought of how happy they had been there.

 _He opened the front door and the most unexpected aroma filled the entrance way and for a moment he thought his mother must have returned from Ireland for the house had that delicious aroma of her cooking. Silently standing in the doorway to the kitchen he watched as Sybil brought the pan of coddle out of the oven and placed it on top of the stove. He smiled watching the self-satisfied grin she gave as she tasted it._

 _There were winter evenings when they'd nestle on the sofa in the sitting room dimly lit by a small fire in the fireplace, each sipping a glass of brandy while they talked about their day. There were summer evenings spent lying on the grass in the backyard looking at the stars._

 _There had been quiet celebrations involving just the two of them and loud boisterous parties. Dinner parties that went late into the night and evenings of just the two of them sitting on the sitting room sofa eating from a tray._

He was lost in his thoughts and unware that raindrops had started falling until a couple rustled past him, the man holding his jacket over the giggling woman's wavy platinum blonde hair. He hustled across the street and was turning the key in the front door lock when there was a distant crack of thunder just as the rain came pouring down.

They must have been on the edge of the rain storm for there was only distant rumblings of thunder and the pouring rain was short lived although there was still a light rain falling. He had made himself a cup of tea and now sat in his favorite chair, a soft leather club chair, with his feet propped up on the matching ottoman. The storm had cooled the temperature and there was still a welcomed breeze blowing in through the large sitting room windows. Although he should have gone to bed rather than sitting here drinking tea Tom knew he'd be unable to sleep. Life comes with many changes, some from choices one makes and some from circumstances beyond one's control. Tom had a decision to make but it wasn't one he could do alone. Yet before he could make the decision he had to know what he wanted and he wasn't quite sure.


	35. Epilogue Part 2

**A/N: And so at long last we come to the end. I'm thankful for your many wonderful and thoughtful reviews throughout this story. I was a bit discouraged by the last chapter so this may seem a bit jumbled since I originally planned a 3-part epilogue.**

 _ **Almost three months later**_

Sybil stood in the disarray that was the Branson sitting room. Boxes and crates were piled everywhere, some filled and taped and ready for shipment while others were still in various stages of being packed with pieces of straw and crumbled newspapers littering the floor. The walls were bare having been stripped of the photographs and paintings that she and Tom had so carefully hung, the furniture was no longer in neat seating arrangements, it was thought Sybil all such a mess. The room was no longer the one that she had so lovingly furnished and decorated.

She took a deep breath and rubbed her hand across the slight swell of her belly. This house had been where she and Tom had started their life together and she had thought it would where they would raise their children. Aah she hummed thinking how life moves in directions you sometimes can't imagine. She edged over to end of the sofa and sat down remembering she had been sitting in this very spot when Tom finally told her his news.

She had returned home from a week appraising the estate of a mansion in the Hudson River Valley. Sitting on a shaded hilltop there had been gorgeous views of the river below and the green hills on the other side of the river but the mansion itself had been creaky and creepy and in great disrepair. The telephone service had been spotty, she'd only managed two short calls to Tom, although they were long enough to know that something was bothering him, something that he didn't want to bring up over the telephone.

Returning home in late afternoon she had stepped into the foyer and had been greeted with the sight of a beautiful bouquet of colorful flowers on the hall table, the enticing aroma of roast chicken in the air and the delightful sounds of Tom's Irish lilt belting out a tune in the kitchen, all of which had brought a smile to her lips. He had tried to hide whatever it was that was bothering him through their dinner as their conversation was relegated to trivialities. It was only after their dinner had been eaten, the dishes washed, and they had retired to the sitting room with fresh cups of tea that Tom had finally told her.

 _Jonah has decided to expand his magazine and newspaper empire and he's offering me a job of editor of a new European motor car magazine he wants to publish and I can still write for some of his other magazines._ _It's a job come true for me Sybil and if it was here I'd have accepted right away. But we'd have to leave New York and this house and our lives here and I'm just not sure I want to leave. And I'd be asking you to give up your work and friends._

They had wrestled with their decision, weighing the pros and cons before finally making their decision. This isn't getting any work done Sybil chided herself as she tried to put away the thoughts of that evening. What's done is done and here we are she thought as she looked around the room at the boxes and crates.

The sound of the front door bell provided a welcomed relief from deciding what to tackle next.

Sybil's face lit up at the sight of the tall elegant figure of Carrick McGrann standing on the front porch. The smile he gave her in return was a testament to the deep affection that had developed between the two.

"I was looking for an excuse to take a break" Sybil laughed as she gestured for him to enter the house.

He stopped to give her a quick kiss on the check. "I don't think I've been used as an excuse before" he cheekily replied.

In the foyer, Carrick stopped in the arched doorway to the sitting room as he took in the sight of the boxes and crates, the paintings on the floor leaning against the wall, the books piled on the floor. He was glad Sybil was behind him and couldn't see the sadness suddenly etched across his face as he realized that Sybil and Tom's move which had seemed so distant was now imminent.

"Let me put the kettle on" Sybil said as she breezed past him and made for the kitchen. "A cup of tea and a slice of cake sounds good to me right now."

As Sybil busied herself in the kitchen, Carrick looked around the sitting room and adjoining dining room and saw them not as they looked now but as the scene of so many delightful dinners, of evenings spent sitting in front of a roaring fire debating with Tom some finer point of Irish politics, of those times alone with Sybil quietly discussing investing in real estate. With the money earned from selling the last of the objects d'art she had taken from Downton, Sybil had partnered with Carrick to buy two small apartment buildings. Now with Sybil off to Ireland, Carrick's management company would manage those buildings along with this townhouse and the other townhouse Sybil owned.

"I think we'll have more room at the kitchen table" Sybil called out as she set the mugs, plates, and the remaining half of a pound cake on the table that had been a wedding present from her grandmother.

Returning to the table with the teapot, Sybil noticed Carrick looking at some of the framed photographs now filling almost half of the large mahogany dining table. While she took a seat and began filling their mugs with the steaming tea, Carrick carried one of the photographs to his seat at the kitchen table.

Smiling at the photograph, he said "I think this was the most exciting trip of my life."

"It was wonderful wasn't it" Sybil smiled as she saw the photograph of Tom, Cian and herself with the erupting Old Faithful geyser in the background.

"I still see Cian's face when he saw that first herd of bison" Carrick chuckled. "Not sure which he found most fascinating those bison or the boiling mud pots. Even now he can't understand why none of the mud at our house bubbles up."

While they drank their tea and ate slices of pound cake they talked of that trip last summer that she, Tom, Carrick and Cian had taken out west. Traveling by train they had taken six weeks to travel to San Francisco and back with a side trip to Yellowstone National Park. It had been a wonderful trip thought Sybil not just for the amazing scenery but also the company.

But there had been so many wonderful trips over these last few years she thought; the delayed honeymoon to Niagara Falls, the visit to that beautiful city Quebec, that trip to San Juan. She was so immersed in her reminiscing that it took a moment for her to realize Carrick was talking to her.

"It's something small to remember me by" he said as he pulled a small blue tissue wrapped object from his pocket and handed it to Sybil.

"Oh Carrick I need nothing physical to remember you" Sybil softly replied. "I have so many wonderful memories of our times together." She looked at the photographs lying on the other end of the dining table "and so many photographs." She chuckled "even if you're not in them I know you took so many of them."

"We've had wonderful times Sybil. Not just the trip out west but when you and Tom took me with you to Ireland." He paused as he thought of that trip three years ago, it was the first time he had been in Ireland in over fifteen years and the trip had been filled with nostalgia. "But it's been so much more than just those trips."

"Please" he said as he nodded at the tissue wrapped bundle laying on the table in front of Sybil.

Sybil gently unfolded the tissue paper and found a beautiful delicate gold brooch, about four inches in length, oblong in shape with intricate gold scrollwork filled with small diamonds and emeralds. "It's beautiful!" she exclaimed as she looked at the brooch.

"I gave that to my wife Frances on our first anniversary." Carrick's voice was barely above a whisper.

Blinking back tears Sybil looked at Carrick. "Oh Carrick shouldn't you keep this for Bronagh?"

Smiling Carrick took Sybil's hand in his. "I have a few other pieces of Frances' jewelry that I'll give Bronagh or her daughters. But this one I want you to have." Patting her hand he continued "Until Tom and Bronagh and Cian came into my life I didn't realize how lonely I was. I had my work and I had friends but …" he paused. "You know what makes a home, it's not the furniture we fill it with but the people who grace its rooms, who fill it with laughter and sometimes tears, who are around not only to share the joys but are there to share the sorrows. It's only been these past six years that my house became a home again."

He took a deep breath but when he looked at Sybil his clear blue eyes were twinkling. "And you've been part of that. You've become like a daughter to me just like Bronagh."

"Oh Carrick" Sybil's own eyes were clouded with tears as she looked at the kindly man who had been the source of so much wisdom and advice to her these last few years. "I …"

* * *

Sybil had arrived early and it was no surprise that her grandmother wasn't ready yet. Waiting for her grandmother in the drawing room, Sybil stood in front of a long low cabinet filled with framed photographs placed between the two large windows that overlooked the park. A new silver framed photograph of Sybil and Tom with Gran had caught Sybil's eye. Sybil smiled thinking of that recent Sunday when Tom had driven them out to Smithtown Bay on Long Island and they'd stopped at some roadside shanty for lunch. The informal photograph of the three of them sitting at the small table on the shanty's porch, the table covered with a platter of freshly caught seafood and the sparkling water of the Long Island Sound in the background. It had been a fun afternoon filled with laughter as they motored along the scenic north shore of Long Island.

As with so much these days Sybil had a pang of guilt thinking that soon she'd be so far away. Her grandmother had offered her a home when she so needed one and in these past years the two had become close. She would also be grateful for having had the opportunity to get to know her grandmother better.

Sitting the photograph back on the cabinet, Sybil spied a photograph of Martha and Carrick in evening dress sitting at a table with several of Martha's friends. She chuckled thinking how the two had become good friends, nothing romantic but just two older people enjoying each other's company.

The smile on her face was quickly wiped away at the sight of a photograph of her and her mother which unlike the Smithtown Bay photograph did not convey such happy memories. The photograph had been taken almost a year after her marriage when Mama had come to New York for a visit. Sybil had grudgingly acquiesced to Gran's pleas to meet with her mother but despite her mother's excuses and pleas for a new beginning Sybil had no such desires. During the two weeks Cora was in New York their meetings were polite stilted affairs and Cora had left New York brokenhearted.

Seeing the photograph of her mother only reminded Sybil of a conversation she had recently had with Tom.

 _I think I've decided I don't want to work after the baby is born. I've watched you and Bronagh with Cian and I realize I never had that as a child. As a child I loved my parents but neither of them ever tucked me in at night or read me a bedtime story. I was raised by nannies and I don't want that for our child. I want to be there to see the first time she stands and the first time she walks. Maybe if my parents had been there like that for me they would have known me better. Maybe they wouldn't have been so surprised by my falling in love with you._

* * *

As Tom and Bronagh followed Sybil and Roland down the pier, Tom took hold of Bronagh's arm and the two stopped midway down the pier.

"Sometimes I find it so hard to imagine all the things that have happened since that first time we walked down this pier" Tom spoke as other passengers and porters ladened with luggage walked around them. It had been a day much like this one six years ago when he and Bronagh with infant Cian in her arms had arrived in New York.

Bronagh looked at him and smiled that smile that was always so reassuring to him. "To think how scared we both were." She then looked down the pier to where her husband and Sybil had stopped after finally realizing that Tom and Bronagh had fallen behind. Keeping her eyes focused on them, she said "I think things worked out better than either of us ever expected."

"Aye" Tom replied. "As I said the day of your wedding, you got what you wanted. You got that man whose eyes light up when you enter the room."

Bronagh nodded her head slowly, her face glowing with happiness. "I did didn't I."

Then she turned towards Tom, that glow of happiness replaced by a momentary touch of sadness. Their embrace was one of deep affection. Each of them knew that a part of them would always love the other. "I think both of us got very lucky" she whispered in his ear as he held her tightly.

"Sometimes I think I should be a bit jealous" Roland spoke to Sybil as they stood watching Tom and Bronagh. ""But I guess the two of them will always have a special bond."

"I think we should be glad that they had someone to turn to in those dark times" Sybil replied. Sybil hated to think what might have become of Tom if Bronagh hadn't intervened and for that she'd always be grateful to Bronagh.

"Sometimes life has a funny way of working out doesn't it?" Roland turned to look at Sybil. "I always consider your case my greatest failure but I'm so grateful that you walked into my office that day."

It had been at Tom and Sybil's wedding celebration that Roland first spied the beautiful light brown haired beauty across the room. "Who is that?" he had asked his friend Charles. By most accounts Roland was considered a ladies man and he would admit there had been ladies in his life, some had last a year or two while others three or four years and one had even lasted eight years. Yet as he stood in Carrick's townhouse that warm summer day watching Bronagh from across the room as she mingled with the other guests he was drawn to her by that lovely Irish lilt and that beguiling smile. When he finally got the courage to walk up to her and talk to her and she turned those lovely blue eyes towards him, he knew that he had met the one he had waited for years to meet.

"I wouldn't consider it your greatest failure" Sybil smiled at Roland. "It did end right after all." She looked at Tom and Bronagh and back to Roland "For all of us."

* * *

From her spot high on the deck of the ship Sybil was amazed how small the people on the pier looked. She and Tom stood at the railing waving to Roland and Bronagh as their ship set sail.

"She won't let him forget you" Sybil quietly spoke into Tom's ear as the huge ship suddenly vibrated and the water surrounding it began churning. At her words his head turned to look at her.

"Cian" she added. For Sybil knew that of all their goodbyes Tom's goodbye to Cian had been the hardest for him.

 _With their house empty of furniture they had spent their final night in New York at Carrick's where Martha had joined them for dinner. After dinner as they continued to linger around the kitchen table, the tea replaced by good Irish whiskey, Tom had excused himself to tuck Cian into bed. There had been one last bath time and one last bedtime story for Tom and the child he had loved since his birth._

 _Before Cian settled into his bed he had opened the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a piece of paper rolled into a scroll and loosely tied with a wide ribbon. "I drew this for you Uncle Tom. Ma says you can hang it in your new house and it will make you think of me every day so you won't forget me."_

 _Tom slipped off the loose ribbon and unfurled the heavy piece of paper revealing a scene of crudely drawn trees, a puddle of blue with a thick brown line on top and_ _two figures sitting on the brown line. In the lower corner there was written a very lopsided CIAN._

" _It's me and you at the lake."_

 _Tom tousled Cian's hair. "I think this is the finest drawing anyone has ever given me."_

 _Cian's face lit up with a smile. "I knew you would like it!"_

 _Tom stayed sitting on the edge of Cian's bed long after the child had fallen asleep. How many times have I sat like this watching the gentle rise and fall of his little chest? He thought of the infant Cian sitting on his lap and looking up at him, his face breaking out in a toothless grin. He thought of holding his tiny hands as he took his first steps. He thought of how quickly those steps had become a run. He thought of how much he loved this child and remembered the first time hearing Cian call Roland "Daddy" and felt like a knife had pierced his chest._

 _Finally Tom leaned over and kissed the top of the sleeping child's head whispering "I'll never forget you lad. You, like your mother, will always be in my heart."_

Sybil took Tom's hand and smiled at her husband. "Having watched you with Cian these past years, how patient you were with him, how much you just enjoyed being with him, I know you'll be a wonderful father to our child."

They stood there together long after the pier had faded from sight as the ship sailed down New York Harbor past the island of Manhattan and then turning into the Lower Bay as it made its way out to the Atlantic. Just past the Army post of Fort Tilden on the Rockaway Peninsula jutting out of Long Island, Tom suggested they retire to their cabin but Sybil refused to leave.

With the upper reaches of the Manhattan skyscrapers still visible against the clear blue skies, Sybil wanted to linger a little longer. She didn't know when they'd return to this place that had been their home for over five years, the place where she and Tom had finally become husband and wife.

"This is our past Sybil" he said as he nodded his head towards the fading skyscrapers. Tom grabbed his wife's hand. "Come with me."

He led her to the front of the ship. To their left in the distance they could faintly see tall grasses blowing in the wind while ahead of them and off to the right was nothing but ocean. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. "We've closed one story of our life" he whispered into her ear. "Here in front of us is a new story just waiting to be written. Whatever it will be, it will be you and me and" his hand rested against her belly "and this one here."

Sybil, looking straight ahead, put her hands on top of his. "I remember the night I accepted your proposal I told you I was ready to travel and you were my ticket." She tilted her head to look up at him. "I'm ready for a new adventure with you."

"I love you Tom" she said as she reached up to kiss him.

"And I you Sybil" he said as his lips met hers.

 **THE END**


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